


Pansy, Rows, and Mutual Wanking

by hpwlwbb, kysprite, violetclarity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Coming Out (to oneself & others), Denial, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fights, Friendship, Getting Together, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Internalized Homophobia, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Party Games, Research Projects, Roommates, Sexual exploration, Truth or Dare, Underage Drinking, sexual realizations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24539833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpwlwbb/pseuds/hpwlwbb, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kysprite/pseuds/kysprite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetclarity/pseuds/violetclarity
Summary: Eighth year. Hermione's ready. She's going to study, have fun with her friends, and ignore her new roommate's obnoxious wanking habits.And alright, maybe she wouldn't be so annoyed with it if she'd had any good sex in the past. But that doesn't mean she wants Pansy Parkinson to teach her how to wank....does it?
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 50
Kudos: 525
Collections: HP WLW BB 2020





	Pansy, Rows, and Mutual Wanking

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Notes:** I’m so excited to finally share this story, which has been in my head for a long time. Thank you to **yrfrndfrnkly** for undertaking the endeavour of running this fest with me again, and for your fantastic beta-reading skills; **whiskyandwildflowers** for being an amazing beta-reader and helping me work through many plot hiccups; and **kysprite** for creating wonderful art to accompany this story!
> 
>  **Artist:** [kysprite](https://kysprite.tumblr.com/) (tumblr)  
>  **Medium:** Digital  
>  **Artist’s Notes:** It was a blast to read this fic and I had so much fun working on this!

“Parkinson wanks an extraordinary amount.” 

Hermione’s announcement is met with blank stares from Harry and Ron. Ron looks down at his breakfast, blinking rapidly, while Harry glances sidelong at him, then back at Hermione, as if trying to gauge if this topic is alright between them. It’s times like this that Hermione really regrets her short-lived relationship with Ron; she just wants to complain to her best friends about the frequency with which her roommate orgasms, uncomplicated by the fact that she and one of those best friends used to give each other orgasms too.

“Um.” Ron glances around the table, as though worried someone might be listening in on their conversation. He swallows the egg he was chewing. “What do you mean by an 'extraordinary amount?'”

“Daily!” Hermione exclaims. “Every night she gets into bed and closes the curtains, but she usually comes out and goes to the loo before she actually goes to sleep. I can’t hear anything, but I _know_ she’s wanking in there. I–” Hermione cuts herself off. _I can smell her,_ she’d been about to say, but she thinks that is more information than Harry and Ron need.

Harry shifts in his seat. “Maybe she just has trouble falling asleep?”

“Every night, Harry. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“I dunno, Hermione. Having a wank before bed doesn’t seem like an ‘extraordinary amount’ to me,” Ron says. Hermione goggles, but Harry nods along. “I mean, I think that’s fairly average for the boys in our old dorm?” 

“I think Blaise does it in the morning,” Harry says. “He always takes long showers.”

Hermione narrows her eyes. “That’s a weird thing to notice.”

Harry glares at her. “You were the one who started this conversation by bringing up how often _your_ roommate wanks!”

“I usually do it before bed,” Ron says bluntly. “Helps you relax, you know?”

“Sure,” Hermione allows, “I mean, that makes sense, but _every night_ – doesn’t that cut into your studying time?” Harry snorts and tries to cover it up. Hermione frowns. “Or whatever you’re doing with your evening! It just doesn’t seem like an efficient use of time.”

“Well, I think it’s more common for blokes because on the whole it takes less time for us to, y’know,” Ron lowers his voice, “ _come,_ than it does for girls.”

Hermione blushes. She knows they’re both thinking of the times in Ron’s room at the Burrow when it had taken her ages to climax, Ron kneeling between her legs, his own dick spent and flaccid. He’d alternate between hands and mouth for what felt like hours, finally wringing a miniscule wave of pleasure from Hermione’s body; the whole experience was embarrassing, another reason why trying something with him had been a mistake. She doesn’t like being bad at things, and that includes orgasms.

Harry leans his head on one hand. “She’s not being inconsiderate about it, is she?” he asks. “I mean, she’s using a Silencing Charm and everything?”

“She does,” Hermione says. Harry and Ron exchange a glance that they probably hoped she wouldn’t notice, and Hermione looks down at her breakfast, pushing her eggs around the plate. Before one of them can repeat the point, she opens her mouth. “You’re right. I’m probably overreacting.” Being comfortable talking about sex and sexuality has never been a strong point of Hermione’s, and she’s self-aware enough to admit that. Her first impulse is still towards judgment when she hears about her classmates’ sexual exploits, even now that she’s had some exploits of her own.

“I mean, it’s all part of getting used to having new roommates, right?” Ron says. It’s an obvious attempt to make her feel better, but Hermione is grateful. “You live with the same people for six years, it’s weird to suddenly be thrown in with someone new you hardly know in the name of house unity.”

“That’s true,” Hermione acknowledges.

Harry nods. “Blaise is so messy,” he says. “Leaves his stuff _everywhere._ He keeps it to his side of the room, but I still have to look at it, y’know?”

“Ernie would probably say the same thing about me,” Ron says, and Harry protests that Ron’s mess was never that bad. The conversation segues into complaints about their old Gryffindor roommates and Hermione smiles along, silently vowing to be less bothered by Pansy Parkinson’s masturbatory habits.

*

Hermione’s self-imposed mandate to be less judgmental lasts almost a week. Specifically, it lasts until the night when Parkinson forgets to cast her usual Silencing Charm.

When she first enters the room after a late night in the library and sees that Parkinson’s bed curtains are closed, Hermione thinks nothing of it. Well, she wrinkles her nose in annoyance, but then reminds herself that masturbation is a healthy, normal practice, and both Harry and Ron didn’t see anything out of the ordinary with Parkinson’s behavior. Trying to ignore the Erumpet in the room, Hermione grabs her pyjamas out of her bed and takes them into the bathroom to change and brush her teeth. She decides to read before going to sleep in order to keep ignoring whatever is happening in the other bed, but when she goes back out into the room, it becomes clear that will be impossible.

There are _noises_ coming from behind Parkinson’s bed curtains.

At first Hermione thinks she might be imagining something. There is a loud sigh, and she glances sharply at the window. But it’s closed, and it’s too early in the year for the wind to be causing that kind of noise, so she climbs into bed and pulls her own curtains shut, Conjuring a light to read by.

Another sigh, more vocalized, almost a moan. And a bitten-off curse that sends Hermione’s pulse racing.

 _Fuck._ She can hear Parkinson masturbating.

A rustle of sheets from the other bed, and then the grunting begins. Little breathy grunts that Hermione would derisively call performative, if not for the fact that she knows Parkinson doesn’t think anyone is listening right now. “Uh, uh, uh,” Parkinson moans, and Hermione fancies she can hear the wet sounds of skin against skin, except she has to be imagining things.

“ _Yes!_ ” Parkinson gasps, and Hermione presses a hand to her now-open mouth, heart pounding in her chest.

Should she say something? Make Parkinson aware that she’s being overheard? What she’s doing is so...personal, and Hermione feels like a voyeur, sitting in her own bed listening to the other girl bring herself pleasure. But at the same time, she doesn’t want to interrupt. Hermione herself finds masturbation rather dull and interminable, but she’s been made aware that others don’t share her opinion, and that the chase to climax can be single-minded once one gets going.

And Parkinson is certainly going, sounds escaping her almost constantly, little moans and for God’s sake, is that the bed frame squeaking?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Parkinson gasps, and then _wails,_ loud and high and needy, and when Hermione’s blood stops rushing through her ears she realises it must be over.

She hears Parkinson get up and go into the bathroom, and only then do her muscles unlock and let her move. Hermione rolls onto her side and squeezes her eyes shut, trying to calm her breathing. Even though she was tired when she got to her room, sleep now feels a long ways away.

*

Hermione wakes filled with a righteous fury to confront Parkinson for her inconsiderate behavior, but throughout the day her anger cools, and by the time she sees Parkinson again – studying in their room that evening – she’s decided against bringing it up. It will be more trouble than it’s worth, she’s concluded. If it happens again, she’ll certainly say something, but she ought to let this time remain water under the bridge.

And Parkinson remembers the Silencing Charm from then on, which is some relief.

The problem is, now that it’s been brought to Hermione’s attention exactly how much other people enjoy masturbation, it feels like she’s hearing about it _everywhere._

She’s eating alone in the Great Hall and overhears a conversation amongst the sixth-year Ravenclaws at the next table. One of them has a new boyfriend, it sounds like, and the others are quizzing her about how he is in bed.

“Well, he’s not as good as me yet,” the girl jokes, making the others laugh. “But he’s trainable.”

A few days later, Hermione waits with Ginny outside the Transfiguration classroom for them to go in and pick up the essays they turned in last week. McGonagall is serious about N.E.W.T. preparation, and these essays are going to be graded just as harshly as their N.E.W.T.s will be.

“I’m too stressed about this,” Ginny gripes, running a hand through her already-messy hair. “I should have wanked this morning.”

The next night, Hermione attends a reunion of the girls she used to room with, hosted in Padma and Parvati’s room, and immediately regrets it when the entertainment for the evening is a magazine article titled _Top Tricks to Tantalize Yourself,_ gleefully read aloud by Lavender. Hermione excuses herself early and returns to her own room with a sigh of relief, only to hear unmistakable moaning from behind Parkinson’s bed curtains.

Frustrated, Hermione grabs her pyjamas and slams the door to the bathroom, probably louder than she should. Why does she have to be rooming with Pansy Parkinson, of all people, and why can’t Parkinson remember to cast a simple Silencing Charm when she settles in for her nightly wank?

And why is Hermione the only one bothered by her behavior? Everyone else seems to be having a grand old time masturbating and talking about masturbating, leaving Hermione the judgmental fool who’s tired of hearing about it.

But she doesn’t have to be, she thinks, catching sight of herself in the mirror above the sink. Through her thin sleep top, her nipples are peaked from the cold, and her cheeks are flushed with exertion. She looks...good, she reflects, pressing a cool hand to her hot face.

Maybe she’s been going about this all wrong. She’s been getting frustrated because it seems like everyone else is enjoying so much pleasure when she doesn’t get what the big deal is, but maybe it’s time she tried it for herself. Her past experiences with Ron have made her hesitant to get intimate with anyone else, so maybe it’s best to get comfortable alone first. Sure, she’s never done it much in the past, but her life was a lot more stressful then; the new, post-war Hermione could masturbate every night, if she wanted to.

Steeling her resolve, Hermione strips her sleep shirt back off and turns on the shower. She sends a locking spell towards the door for good measure before she steps inside and closes the curtain.

The hot water feels good on her chilled skin, and for a moment she just stands there and lets herself enjoy it, but eventually she figures she ought to get along to the main event.

She slides her hands over her chest, enjoying the slight friction of the water, and palms her breasts until her nipples are hard again. She pinches at one, rolling it between her fingers, before cupping her breast in her hand and squeezing, the way Ron had done the first time he’d taken off her bra.

It feels much the same as it had then – mundane and basic, not exciting or arousing. She switches her grip, absent-mindedly trailing her fingers up and down the curve, and _oh,_ that’s better. She bites her lip and tries the same thing on the other breast, teasing herself with soft, gentle touches that cause her nipples to peak even more. Satisfied that she’s given that area enough attention, Hermione slides one hand down her stomach.

She’s not wet yet, but that’s not surprising; she’d mastered a wandless lubrication spell during her short-lived relationship with Ron, and she casts it now, rubbing the tacky liquid between her fingers before applying it to her labia. It’s pleasantly slippery, and she moves her fingers up and down, spreading it around. As usual, it feels nice but not wonderful. Hermione’s never quite believed people who tell her that orgasms are mind-blowing.

Suppressing a sigh, she moves her fingers to her clit, stroking it purposefully. This, at least, makes the rest of her body sit up and take notice. She’s getting genuinely wet now, and she dips her fingers inside, thrusting in and out, while bringing her other hand back to her clit – she can’t come without that stimulation.

Hermione leans against the shower wall, the tiles cold against her back and the water hot against her side. She tells herself the contrast of temperatures is arousing, and presses harder against her clit. There’s something there – a squirming in her belly, a hot pressure at the base of her cunt, and she tries to lean into it, to let herself get carried away.

But she can’t.

She never can, she thinks sometimes, even though she has brought herself to orgasm before, even though she came during sex a few times with Ron. But it never happens easily. It’s a process, long and arduous, and tonight Hermione is tired. Her fingers are starting to wrinkle from the water, and the momentary enthusiasm that sent her into the shower has faded. She wants to go to sleep. She hopes Parkinson is done with her own wanking.

Admitting defeat, Hermione turns off the shower and gets out, toweling down and ignoring the parts of her that still feel shivery and hot as she pulls her pyjamas back on. When she goes back into the bedroom, there’s a strong scent of Parkinson’s arousal in the air, but it’s quiet behind her bed curtains and the lights have been dimmed. With a scowl in her roommate’s direction, Hermione crawls into her own bed and falls asleep.

*

Once again, Hermione’s nighttime conviction to confront Parkinson about her behavior fades in the light of day. She could barely stomach a conversation with her best friends about masturbation; even while she and Ron were dating, actually talking about sex made her want to sink into the ground. She and Parkinson have such minimal interaction anyway that if Hermione tried to broach the topic of something so sensitive, it would surely do more harm than good.

If it happens again, she’ll say something, she promises herself. Maybe the real problem is that she’s envious – masturbation seems to come very easily to Parkinson, after all, while Hermione struggles to even get aroused when she touches herself. Parkinson would probably call her uptight if she knew, Hermione reflects with a frown. But she’s not thinking about Parkinson right now: she’s thinking about herself.

And as is Hermione’s way when confronted with any problem, she goes to the library.

Unfortunately, Hogwarts’ collection of books on the female pleasure system is extremely minimal, even in the Restricted Section. Hermione takes what she can – foregoing actually checking them out, because she’s too embarrassed – and retreats back to her dorm room.

Where she makes the mistake of leaving them on her bedside table.

She comes back from her last class the next day to see Parkinson standing by her bed with a sneer, holding one of the books by the corner like she’s afraid to pick up its germs.

“ _Unlocking the Secrets of Female Pleasure?_ ” Parkinson’s voice drips with sarcasm, and she snorts derisively before looking up at Hermione. “Granger, I didn’t realise things were so bad between you and Weasley.”

Hermione’s face goes hot.

“It’s none of your business,” she snaps.

“That badly, huh?” Parkinson says mockingly. She puts the book down, dragging one green-lacquered fingernail down the edge of the cover. Hermione has a vivid flash of those fingers dragging between slick folds, and forces the image out of her head. Parkinson’s gaze, dark and sharp, leaves her feeling off-kilter.

“Ron and I aren’t even together anymore,” Hermione tells her, realising too late that it’s not the cutting retort she had hoped, but Parkinson only raises her eyebrows in response.

“Someone clearly needs to help you unlock those _secrets,_ ” she says, voice venomous. “Maybe they should start with removing the broomstick from your arse.”

Hermione’s still spluttering as Pansy sweeps out the door, smiling cruelly.

*

She fumes all through dinner, taking her anger out on her potatoes while her friends watch her warily. It’s Neville, finally, who breaches the tense silence that’s been surrounding her.

“Doing alright, Hermione?” he asks, glancing down at her plate, where what was once a pork chop now more closely resembles mincemeat. “Seems like you might be upset about something.”

She huffs out a breath. “I’m fine,” she says, and even tries to make it convincing – she’s not fine, obviously, but she’s also not going to complain to the table at large that her roommate’s making fun of her how-to wank books.

Harry catches up with her after the meal, grabbing her elbow and pulling her off to the side of the Entrance Hall before she can make for the library. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, voice low, and she shakes her head. “More trouble with Parkinson?”

“How did you guess?” she grumbles.

“What’s she done now?”

“Well, she’s still – you know,” Hermione whispers, face flushing. She opens her mouth to explain about the books, but at the last minute finds it too embarrassing. Sure, she and Harry spent the better part of nine months in a tent together, but they’ve never broached this kind of topic; she doesn’t know what Ron may have told him, but she’s too ashamed to voice the worry that she’s the one with the problem. “It’s just getting to me, is all. And she has the gall to tease me about things, and it’s just...frustrating.”

“If it’s really bothering you, maybe you should talk to her,” Harry suggests, brow furrowed. “I mean, has it gotten worse?”

“There’s been a few times she’s forgotten the Silencing Charms,” Hermione admits. “It’s not the most pleasant thing to fall asleep to.” Not that she’d be able to sleep through those noises, anyway.

“Right, of course.” Harry’s nodding. “I think you need to bring it up to her, then. It’ll be awkward, but it will make the rest of the year a lot better if you do. After all, it’s only been two months.”

He’s right, Hermione thinks, and tells him so. Harry’s right, she reminds herself as she makes her way back to her room later that night after several hours in the library. Parkinson is, blessedly, already asleep, and as Hermione turns out the light she promises herself that she’ll bring it up in the morning.

*

Parkinson’s nowhere to be seen at breakfast, and Hermione’s pulled away by Ginny’s Potions question before she can go looking for her. It’s a Saturday, and she’s supposed to spend the afternoon helping Neville with a rare new plant, in exchange for some leaves to use in her research project. She’d expected it to be an easy task, but a few hours later finds Hermione covered in sap both sticky and noxious-smelling. A _Scourgify_ had helped, but hadn’t done enough; her hair still feels tacky to the touch and there are gross hardened bits around her nose and ears. She leaves the greenhouses to make a swift beeline for her room, visions of hot water and her favorite lavender soap dancing before her eyes.

Except when she gets into her room, the bathroom door is closed.

She tries to open it, for good measure, but it’s locked. Hermione glances at the clock – it’s just past two in the afternoon; no good reason for Parkinson to be showering right now, so she’s probably just using the toilet. Hermione is disgustingly sticky, but she can wait for a few minutes. She perches on the edge of her trunk, unwilling to defile her bed or chair with the sap that might still be clinging to her.

Five minutes later, the door is still locked. Hermione’s ready to throw in the towel and knock when she hears the water start up – and great. Just great. Of course Parkinson’s chosen _today_ of all days to have a cheeky mid-afternoon shower.

That’s when the moaning starts. Moaning that, by all rights, shouldn’t be audible through a closed door and over the spray of water, but is. Moaning that makes Hermione wonder (again) if she’s been doing it wrong, and then if there’s someone else in the shower with Parkinson, because surely if she’s being so loud, she must be making it a bit of a performance? That always used to be one of Ron’s complaints, that Hermione was so quiet in bed he couldn’t tell if she was having a good time. Her attempts to make him feel better by vocalising had, in hindsight, been the first death knell of their relationship.

The moans continue, rising in pitch, and Hermione wonders what she’s done in life to invite this kind of torture. She feels completely at odds with herself, sitting here listening to Parkinson wank and waiting for her to finish, but she can’t very well go anywhere else when she’s still so dirty.

By the end of another twenty-five minutes, Hermione’s embarrassment has transformed to anger, and she’s prowling around their room in her dressing gown, sap-sticky clothes left in a pile on the floor. Parkinson has brought herself to a screaming orgasm not once, but twice, and Hermione would happily throttle her.

Finally, blessedly, the water shuts off. Hermione is waiting in front of the bathroom door, arms crossed and toe tapping, when Parkinson emerges. She’s wearing only a towel, wrapped around her chest and doing very little to cover her legs. Her wet hair is dripping onto her shoulders, and her face is flushed with sex or steam, Hermione’s not sure. She’s exuding an air of relaxation that Hermione – stressed about schoolwork, her special research assignment, all of her interpersonal relationships, and the fact that she’s had sap in her hair for over half an hour – takes as a personal affront.

She can’t hold it in any longer. All of the frustration that’s been building in her over the past few months comes bursting out of her, and she snaps.

“What the fuck, Parkinson?”

Parkinson’s eyes go wide and she presses one hand to her chest, a caricature of ladylike shock. “What the fuck, Granger?” she parrots back.

“Who spends _half an hour_ in the shower _wanking_ in the middle of a Saturday afternoon!” Hermione yells, pointing towards the clock, then back at Parkinson.

“Why are you even here? I thought you were doing…” Parkinson waves her hand dismissively– “you know, boring school things all day.”

“I was, until a plant exploded on me, and I came back to shower off this disgusting sap – except oh wait, I couldn’t, because you were in there _masturbating_!”

Pansy takes a step back, nose wrinkling in distaste as the rancid smell of the sap hits her.

“I’m...sorry, Granger,” she says, as though the words are uncomfortable in her mouth. She steps gingerly to the side, leaving the doorway free for Hermione. “I wouldn’t have taken so long if I’d known you were waiting.”

A calmer, less sticky Hermione might have taken that for the olive branch it was, gone in to take her shower, and continued to cohabitate with Parkinson in an awkward, ongoing stalemate. A charitable, already showered Hermione might even have admitted that the blame wasn’t solely on Parkinson; after all, Hermione _could_ have knocked on the bathroom door to alert Parkinson that she was waiting, if it was really so urgent.

But Hermione is feeling neither calm, nor charitable. She’s still covered in sap, and has never been the best at letting sleeping dogs lie.

“As if,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes when Parkinson splutters. “I don’t think you could go a day without masturbating if your life depended on it.”

“Excuse me, what is _that_ supposed to mean?” Parkinson plants her hands on her waist and cocks her hip, which only serves to highlight how short the towel she’s wearing is.

“Did you think I haven’t noticed?” Hermione continues. “Every night, and sometimes in the morning. Are you sneaking back at lunch for a quickie, too? Do you have any self control?”

“Is it bothering you that much, Granger?”

“I would ignore it, but that’s difficult when I have to listen to you every night!”

Parkinson rolls her eyes. “Why don’t you cast a Silencing Charm then?” she asks. “And for that matter, why didn’t you go use Potter or Weasley’s shower instead of sitting in here listening to me? Unless you liked it.”

Hermione gapes. Her wand is lying on her bed behind her where she’d thrown it while undressing, and she’s ashamed to admit that the thought of casting her own Silencing Charm never occurred to her. Why didn’t she do that?

Parkinson’s watching with crossed arms, smirking, and Hermione wants to knock the smug expression off her face. “I shouldn’t have to find another bathroom to use just because you can’t stop yourself from getting off at all hours of the day,” she says.

“I didn’t realise that my wanking habits were of such importance to you,” Parkinson snarks. “Thinking about it a lot, are you?”

“Just how disgusting you are,” Hermione snaps, and Parkinson pales like Hermione’s slapped her.

Her voice, when she speaks, is very soft but very fast. “If you’ve got the nerve to speak to me like that, Granger, it says more about you than me. At least I’m not a stuck-up repressed _twat_ who can only get off on spell theory and rune translation.”

Hermione is left staring at the door as Parkinson slams out of it, still wearing nothing but her towel.

*

Hermione’s still in a mood that night at dinner. She knows she shouldn’t let Parkinson get to her – who cares what she thinks about Hermione, anyway? – but her words sting. Parkinson doesn’t know anything about Hermione’s life, really; she’d make the same kind of comments just to be mean, even if Hermione were getting off every night, but the fact is that the jibes hit close to home. It’s making Hermione grouchy – as is her worry that she’s still a little smelly, even if her friends have reassured her she’s not.

Ron notices her mood, of course, because he’s an obnoxiously good friend in a way that makes her even more guilty that she couldn’t make things work between them. “Alright, Hermione?” he asks, casting a significant glance down at her dinner plate, which is holding a truly macerated steak and kidney pie.

“Oh, fine,” Hermione says, shrugging. “Just– this afternoon, with the greenhouse.”

Ron nods, understanding – Neville had recounted the story with great drama when they first began to eat – and Hermione pushes down a residual twinge of guilt.

It doesn’t stop her from pulling Ginny to the back of the group when they all leave the Great Hall some time later. Ginny catches on to what she’s doing and hangs back with her until they’re out of earshot of their laughing friends, but Hermione still keeps her voice low when she speaks.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she says, “but I don’t know if we’re that kind of friends.”

“What did you want to ask me about?”

“That’s the thing. It may be...uncomfortable.” Uncomfortable for Hermione, is the truth of it, really; Ginny doesn’t have much of a filter, and even less so the closer she’s become to Luna.

True to form, Ginny just shrugs. “Try me,” she says. “I’ll let you know if it’s something I really don’t want to talk about.”

“Alright,” Hermione says. “Well. I guess… I was curious how often you, y’know…” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “masturbate.”

Ginny, bless her, doesn’t comment on Hermione’s obvious discomfort with the subject. “A few nights a week, I’d say? It’s not like I have a schedule, and it depends on if I’m seeing anyone, and obviously it’s harder when you share a dorm, but…” she shrugs. “Yeah, probably like three times a week.” A bit more hesitantly, as if she’s afraid of spooking Hermione, she continues. “Why do you ask?”

“Parkinson does it every night,” Hermione explains in a rush. “And it’s causing some...tension, in our room.”

“What do you mean by tension?”

“Well at first I thought it was really odd that she did it so often, but when I said that to the boys they told me I was overreacting. So I tried not letting it get to me, but I can tell when she’s at it in the evenings, you know? It’s uncomfortable.” Ginny nods. “And then today when I came back from the greenhouses to shower, she was in there, wanking, and I had to wait almost half an hour to get in the bathroom. We had a row about it.”

“Is that what’s getting to you?” Ginny asks. “I’m surprised you’re so upset about having a tiff with Parkinson. It’s not like you two normally get along.”

“She said...she said some things and I know she was just trying to be mean, but I worry that they’re true.”

“Like what?”

“That I’m stuck-up. Repressed. Only get off on schoolwork, that sort of thing.”

Ginny frowns. “And you’re worried that’s true?”

“Well, yes!” Hermione says. “I mean, I’ve never been very comfortable having sex. With Ron, things always took forever–”

“Treading the line on topics I find uncomfortable, Hermione.”

“Right, sorry– it just wasn’t a very positive experience, I mean, and whenever I try to do things by myself I just...can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“Sometimes I can, but it takes a while.” Hermione’s face is hot with embarrassment and she hopes Ginny can’t tell. “I always feel silly.”

“You know, I used to feel the same way,” Ginny says.

“Really?”

“Yeah! I mean, it’s not like anyone in my family ever talked about it growing up, except for Mum scolding my brothers in a really roundabout way. Not that I understood why Mum was yelling at Bill about stiff sheets when I was five, but you know.” She shrugs, laughing, and Hermione laughs too. “I didn’t even realise it was something girls could do too until I was several years into Hogwarts, and then it took me a while to get used to doing it myself. I think it’s normal to feel that way.”

“That’s...honestly a relief to hear.”

Ginny nods. “If it’s something you want to get more comfortable doing, I think it’s just a matter of practice. If you’re mad because Parkinson is being an inconsiderate roommate – which it sounds like is _also_ true – you should give it a few days and talk to her about it. I mean, it’s your room too, and you have over half the school year left. You both need to be comfortable.”

“You’re right. I’ll do that,” Hermione says with a smile. “Thanks, Ginny.”

*

Hermione plans to try out some of the tips from her book after her last class of the day on Thursday. She knows that Parkinson always has a meeting at four-thirty and goes straight to dinner afterwards, which guarantees her several uninterrupted hours in their room. However, she hasn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to follow the book’s instructions.

She tries to follow them as closely as possible. She doesn’t have access to a bath, so she takes a shower instead, idly playing with her breasts and focusing on the way the water sluices over her body. The shower is turned up as hot as she can stand, and the feeling of the spray beating against her back, slipping down between her breasts, is nice. She’s not aroused yet, but she could maybe see herself getting there.

After she comes out of the shower, she draws the curtains at the window and closes the ones around her bed, casting a variation of _Lumos_ that illuminates her bed like there are stars in the sky; in lieu of lighting a candle, which she doesn’t have, she casts a spell that makes the room smell like lavender.

The book recommended she put on something in which she felt sexy, like lingerie or a nice dressing gown, so Hermione’s Transfigured something special for the occasion. Her usual dressing gown is fluffy and utilitarian, the opposite of sensual, so she’s turned a spare uniform shirt into something silky and soft. She puts it on and stretches out on her bed, trying to focus on _being in her body,_ like the book suggested.

It’s nice to feel so pampered, Hermione can admit; it’s not the kind of thing she does often. She’s enjoying this, she tells herself. She _is._

With one knee propped up for ease of access, Hermione closes her eyes and trails her hands down her body. Her nipples are peaked from the cold, and the loose fit of the dressing gown makes it easy to slip a hand inside to palm her own breast. She enjoys the heavy feeling of it, the firm peak of her nipple, but it still doesn’t do much for her, so she moves her hand further down instead.

She’s forgone putting on knickers after her shower, and it gives her a little thrill to be able to slide her hand down her stomach and palm herself with no waistband or fabric in the way. She trails her fingers along her folds, teasing herself like the book recommended instead of going straight for her clit. It’s working – the accidental catch of the edge of her finger against her clit makes her body sit up and take notice. She continues stroking in the same gentle rhythm, spreading the wetness that’s beginning to develop around as she does. She keeps doing that for far longer than she would normally, and brings her other hand up to massage her breast. Finally, when she’s well and truly wet and can feel her labia getting swollen, she brings two fingers up to her clit and begins to rub.

After all the teasing and foreplay, it shoots through her like a bolt. She thrusts into her hand, biting her lip as she doubles down in force. It feels _so good,_ and she wants to let it carry her away, but something about it still isn’t quite enough.

Hermione tries to keep going, alternates between fingers on the outside and the inside, gives her clit a rest and tries to find other parts of her body that are sensitive, but it’s no use. She can tell it’s not going to work, she’s getting hungry from skipping dinner, and the longer this lasts, the more concerned she is that Parkinson might come back and interrupt her.

As it turns out, her fears aren’t completely unfounded, because no sooner has she cancelled her spells and changed out of her dressing robe and into her pyjamas (she’s still too aroused to think about real trousers) than Parkinson opens the door to their shared room.

She looks at Hermione distrustfully as she enters. “Turning in early, Granger?” She nods at Hermione’s outfit as she crosses to her desk and drops her schoolbag on her chair, which is also holding several textbooks and a sterling-silver cauldron.

Hermione shrugs, wishing she’d had time to take a shower – she hopes Parkinson can’t tell that she’s sweaty. “I wanted to get out of my uniform,” she explains, and Parkinson seems to accept it, un-knotting her own tie and adding it to the collection of accessories accruing on her desk. This is the most civil conversation they’ve had since their spat about the showers, and Hermione takes advantage of the lack of vitriol from Parkinson to broach the subject.

“Listen...about the other day. I’m sorry. I was out of line, to say those things to you...I was frustrated that I couldn’t take a shower right away, and I let it get the best of me.”

Parkinson inclines her head, a silent thank-you. “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” she says. “Obviously I didn’t know you were going to be coming back covered in pus, but that doesn’t excuse how you spoke to me.”

“I know,” Hermione rushes to say, slightly annoyed. “That’s why I apologised.”

Parkinson sniffs. “Apology accepted.” Then, turning back to face Hermione, she seems to notice her outfit anew. She crosses her arms and lets her eyes travel down Hermione’s body. “I suppose you can’t be blamed for your _frustration,_ relying on Weasley to take care of your...needs.”

“I told you, Ron and I aren’t together anymore,” Hermione snaps, realising too late she’s taken offense to the wrong thing.

Parkinson raises her eyebrows. “Nothing to say about that frustration, though, Granger?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It obviously is, if it’s bleeding into your relationship with your roommate. Are you jealous that I know how to get myself off? Is that it?”

Hermione tries for a scoff. “As if.”

That gets a delighted laugh from Parkinson. “That _is_ it! Poor little Hermione Granger, can’t learn how to wank from a book? I’m sure you’ve tried.”

“It’s none of your business,” Hermione says haughtily, although her red cheeks are surely a dead giveaway of her discomfort.

“Books can’t teach you everything, you know.” Parkinson’s voice is mocking. She reaches under her skirt and slides her tights down, stepping out of them, and Hermione averts her eyes. Parkinson chuckles when she does.

“Books can teach you plenty,” Hermione says, then curses herself for continuing the conversation.

“Not as well as I could teach you.” Parkinson’s teasing, and Hermione keeps her eyes locked on the floor a few feet in front of her. “If only you weren’t too scared to learn.”

“I’m not scared!” Hermione turns to meet Parkinson’s eyes. She’s unbuttoned her shirt while Hermione wasn’t looking, her sheer mesh bra and the swell of her breasts above the fabric magnets for Hermione’s eyes. Realising she’s staring, she tears her eyes away.

Parkinson smirks. “I forgot; Gryffindors don’t get scared. Does that mean you want me to show you how it’s done?” When she puts her hands on her hips, it pushes the fabric of her shirt back, exposing skin and sides and hips.

Hermione stands. “If you think you’re such an expert, go ahead.”

Parkinson’s eyes register surprise for the briefest of moments before she narrows them and doubles down. “Alright then. Get on your bed.”

Heart pounding in her chest, Hermione turns to do so. Half of her brain is screaming at her, wondering what she’s possibly doing; the other half is pushing her forward, running on adrenaline and unwilling to let Parkinson win this strange stand-off. Behind her, the sheets rustle as Parkinson climbs into her bed and closes the curtain; with a breath of relief, Hermione does the same.

“Are you ready?” Parkinson asks. Filtered through two sets of bed curtains, her voice is softer than it was before, no longer harsh and confrontational, but low and seductive. Hermione suppresses a shiver.

“Yes.” She wonders if her voice sounds different to Parkinson now too.

“Good.” Another rustle; Hermione wonders what she’s doing over there. “How do you usually start?”

“Um.” Hermione swallows. In an attempt to save face: “I thought you were supposed to be telling me what to do?”

“If that’s what you want, Granger.” Hermione can’t help the way that makes her thighs clench. If she didn’t know better, she’d say Parkinson was teasing her. “Take your shirt off for me.”

Hermione does, scrambling to sit up and tossing the shirt towards the end of her bed. Exposure to the air makes her nipples tighten. “Play with your tits,” Parkinson instructs her, and Hermione does, squeezing the left as she rubs at her nipple with her thumb.

“How does that feel?”

“Fine?”

“It should feel better than fine. What are you doing?”

“Just kind of...touching it?”

A sigh. Parkinson sounds annoyed. Is Hermione really that bad at this? “Lick your thumb and your forefinger and use it to pinch, then rub your palm over your nipple, barely touching. Make yourself want it.”

Hermione does, and the gentle touch has her arching into her palm. She does the same with the other, trailing her fingertips feather-light over herself, and gasps.

Parkinson chuckles. “Is that better?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Good. Now keep doing that, and with the other hand reach down – not under your knickers yet, just teasing yourself over the fabric.”

When Hermione does, she’s shocked to realize that the fabric is already slightly damp – normally when she masturbates she has to work her clit for some time before she begins to get wet. With a smile, she bucks up into her hand, grinding against the base of her palm. It feels good.

“Now, how’s that?”

“Feels good,” Hermione gasps. Her breathing is coming fast now, her body waking up in response to the stimulation.

“As it should,” Parkinson says. Her voice sounds a little labored, and Hermione realises she can hear the rustling of sheets from the other bed. Because Parkinson is wanking too. Hermione doesn’t know why she’s surprised – it’s logical, and it’s no more taboo for Parkinson to talk her through how to wank while she’s doing it herself – but it jolts something in her. She finds herself listening more carefully, wondering if Parkinson’s doing the same things to herself as Hermione is, imagining how she looks stretched out on her bed.

“You can reach underneath now,” Parkinson says, “take your knickers off–” and Hermione does, letting out an involuntary whine as skin touches skin. It’s a shock, and her fingers feel cold against her overheated clit, warm and swollen and wet. She cants her hips up, finding herself _wanting_ – it’s never felt like this when she’s masturbated before.

“Feels amazing,” she gasps, because she needs to share with someone, even if that person is Pansy Parkinson; and it feels only right, in this moment, that Pansy knows, because it’s her advice that has gotten Hermione here.

Parkinson laughs, low and throaty. “Don’t only touch your clit,” she advises. “Slide your fingers down your folds, or put them inside you. If you make yourself wait, it’s more powerful when you come.”

Hermione has been mostly touching her clit, so she forces herself to heed Parkinson’s advice, sliding her fingers further down. She teases around her entrance, but doesn’t go inside; firm strokes between her folds feel best, and every time she lets her thumb tease over her clit, it’s electric.

In the next bed, she can hear the wet sounds of flesh on flesh and the faintly ominous creaking of Parkinson’s bed frame; even, faintly audible, Parkinson’s heavy breathing. It should make her uncomfortable, but it doesn’t; instead, it feels like permission to lose herself, to really let go. Parkinson’s obviously enjoying herself, so why shouldn’t Hermione?

She draws her legs up and plants her feet flat on the bed, giving herself more leverage to chase her own touch. She keeps up the teasing strokes with her right hand, bringing the left down from her breast to focus on her clit. Making herself wait is well and good, but she can already tell from the warmth pooling in her belly that this orgasm is going to be stronger than average, and right now, she needs to come.

Parkinson’s long past the point of giving her instructions, but that’s fine; Hermione can figure it out herself from here. She squeezes her eyes shut and doubles down on thumbing her clit, focusing all of her energy on the amazing feeling that’s just out of reach. Her legs are trembling, and she’s sure she’s making all kinds of noises, but she doesn’t care anymore; self-consciousness has gone and she’s desperate for release. Her thighs are sticky, her fingers slick; her whole body is primed for orgasm, but as she goes on and nothing changes, panic starts to cling at her heart. This has happened before, alone and with Ron; she thinks it’s going to happen and it doesn’t, she’s left unsatisfied and embarrassed and ashamed–

“ _Ahhhhh!_ ”

Parkinson’s shout is high-pitched and unconstrained; she follows it up with a “yes, yes, yes, _yes,_ ” and then a deep groan, and it’s unmistakable just how much she’s enjoying herself. Before Hermione’s mind has caught up with the sounds, her body is reacting; she arches her back, thrusting wildly into her hand as her orgasm overtakes her. It rolls over her in waves, one big crest and many tiny aftershocks, until she’s left panting, muscles weak, skin sweaty, in awe of her own body.

Even without seeing her face, Hermione can picture the self-satisfied expression that’s on Parkinson’s face when she speaks.

“See?” she says. “Told you I could make it good.”

*

When Hermione wakes up on Friday morning, feeling far better rested than she has in recent memory, Parkinson’s bed curtains are still closed, faint snores audible from behind them. The memory of what happened last night – of the _noises_ Parkinson made when she came – rushes hot to Hermione’s face, and she casts a _Silencio_ at Parkinson’s bed as she grabs her clothes and rushes into the bathroom to change, desperate to get out of the room before her roommate wakes up and she has to face her or, even worse, talk about it.

She makes it safely down to the Great Hall, predictably empty at this hour of the morning, and is so caught up in her own thoughts that she startles violently when someone sits down across from her.

“Shit!” She knocks over her almost-empty juice glass, sending a sad trail of pumpkin juice onto the table.

“Christ, Hermione.” Ron presses his hand to his chest. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Sorry, I– sorry,” Hermione says, taking a deep breath. “My mind was somewhere else, I guess.”

Ron snorts. “Where? Jamaica?”

Hermione can’t help but laugh. “Just thinking about that Ancient Runes exam I’ve got next week,” she lies.

Ron pulls a disgusted face, but whatever he’s going to say next is cut off by Ginny sliding into the seat beside him. “What’s Hermione done now?” she asks.

“Taking Ancient Runes,” Ron says. 

Ginny shakes her head disappointedly. “Unbelievable.”

“You’re both ridiculous,” Hermione says, leaning back from the table and looking towards the door – at the exact moment that Parkinson walks in, of course. They make eye contact, and even from here Hermione can tell that Parkinson’s gone red; she prays her own blush isn’t visible as she turns back to her friends across the table.

Ron nods, once, decisive. “So that’s still going on, then?”

Hermione startles again, almost sending her bowl of cereal to the same fate as her juice. “What?”

“You’re still fighting with Parkinson?” Ron says, as though it’s obvious. Hermione’s heart rate starts to slow, as she reminds herself that Ron doesn’t know what happened in her room last night. “She’s still–” he glances about and lowers his voice, even though the only person near them is Ginny– “wanking a lot?”

“Yes,” Hermione admits, at the same time as Ginny rolls her eyes and says, “This isn’t a covert mission, Ronald.”

“I’ve talked to her about it, though,” Hermione says, studying the dregs of milk in her bowl. “I think she’s going to be more considerate about it going forward.”

Ron nods and takes that at face value, but from the sly look on Ginny’s face, Hermione has a feeling she won’t be let off that easily by both of her friends. Sure enough, after Harry and Neville have come down and drawn Ron into a conversation about Quidditch, Ginny swings around to sit beside Hermione and pulls her into a chat.

“You talked to Parkinson, then?” she asks under her breath.

Hermione nods.

“And what about the other thing?” Ginny continues, bringing Hermione’s raging blush back for the second time that morning.

“Um,” she says. “Yeah. I think you were right, you know. It’s just going to take more practice, getting comfortable with it, like you said.” She hopes it’s not obvious that she’s lying. She doesn’t want to examine why Parkinson’s coaching made such a difference, and she really doesn’t want to explain what happened to Ginny.

If her behavior is odd, Ginny doesn’t notice. “See?” She grins. “I told you, it’s totally normal.”

“Right. Normal.” Hermione swirls her spoon around in her bowl, the last few pieces of cereal now almost completely dissolved in the milk. “Have you ever – do you hear your roommates wanking? At all?”

Ginny frowns. “I told you it was alright to ask Parkinson to _Silencio–_ ”

“I know that. I did,” Hermione says. “I was just wondering. For curiosity’s sake.”

“I guess, occasionally? Not regularly enough that I’d notice a pattern, like with Parkinson,” Ginny says. “If it was bothering me enough, I would probably just cast a _Silencio_ myself. One time I heard Annette in the shower, but once she heard me turn on the other shower she stopped. It was awkward for a couple of days, but we got past it.”

“Hmm.” Hermione doubts that the same thing applies to the situation between her and Parkinson, but she can hope.

“Why?” Ginny asks. “Did something else happen with Parkinson?”

Hermione shakes her head. “No, no. Nothing else happened.”

*

Friday night Hermione lingers in the eighth year common room longer than usual, even as it becomes harder and harder to muffle her yawns. Parkinson doesn’t so much as glance in her direction when she enters the common room and makes a beeline upstairs, and when Hermione finally enters their room almost an hour later, Parkinson’s bed curtains are drawn and the room silent. Hermione forces herself not to think about what her roommate is doing as she quickly changes and gets ready for bed.

Saturday morning Hermione spends longer than she’d like to admit staring at Parkinson’s curtains, trying to parse out if the other girl is still asleep or already gone, before she drags herself into the bathroom. Her sleep was restless, and the hot water on her back is decadent. She idly touches herself, trying to recapture some of the fire she felt when Pansy was talking her through it, but it’s not the same, and she gives up quickly, reminding herself that she has plans to meet Harry in the library for a Defense project.

She sleeps poorly Saturday night too, and Sunday is taken up with the involuntary tutoring she’s been roped into doing for at least half of the eighth years. Hermione loves the library, but even she needs to see a certain amount of natural light every day. By the time she’s finished dinner, her eyes are swimming, and she’s exhausted from the combination of two nights’ poor rest and too much schoolwork. All she wants to do is tumble into bed, and she hardly notices that Parkinson’s not back yet as she stumbles into her pyjamas and pulls the curtains shut.

The strange dream she’s having, in which Flitwick is teaching her to swim in the pool she’d gone to as a child, is interrupted by the sound of the dormitory door hitting the opposite wall. She flies into a sitting position, wand in hand before she hears a familiar voice mutter, “Fucking _shit._ ”

There’s two dull _thuds_ as Parkinson kicks off her shoes – probably those ridiculous platform boots; she’s going to twist her ankle one of these days – and another curse, but then she must notice that Hermione’s already asleep, because the sound of the door closing is much quieter.

Hermione lies down, curling up with her back to Parkinson’s bed and closing her eyes in an attempt to recapture sleep, but the sounds of Parkinson moving about their room keep distracting her. After the _thwump, swish_ of Parkinson falling into bed and closing her curtains, Hermione breathes a sigh of relief, ready to sleep now that silence has returned.

“Mmm,” Parkinson sighs.

Hermione squeezes her eyes shut. Parkinson’s tired, and maybe a little drunk, and settling in for bed, nothing more. She turns onto her front, fluffing her pillow and readjusting it under her head.

“Oh, yes,” Parkinson whispers.

Hermione turns her face away from Parkinson’s bed, towards the door, but it makes no difference; she can still hear everything. Now that she’s paying attention, there’s the tell-tale sound of sheets shifting, and she knows what Parkinson’s up to. Hermione wiggles in bed, trying to call up the annoyance that used to fill her when she heard Parkinson’s wanking; now, blast it all, she finds herself curious.

“Oh!” Parkinson wails. The noise of skin-on-skin almost echoes in the quiet room. How can Parkinson think that she’s sleeping through this? Under her pillow, Hermione clenches her hands into fists. She ignores the slight wetness between her legs, rationalising it away as a reasonable response to hearing sex noises, and promises herself that she’ll say something to Parkinson in the morning.

Even after Parkinson’s obviously finished, it takes a long time for Hermione to fall back asleep.

*

By Thursday, Hermione’s nerves are fried. Every night that week she’s been forced to lie in bed listening as Parkinson brings herself to orgasm. The memory of the pleasure she’d felt when Parkinson coached her to the same – as well as the deep sleep she’d fallen into after – taunts her every time she hears Parkinson begin to moan. On Tuesday morning, and again Wednesday afternoon, she attempts to recreate the experience on her own, but all she’s able to wring out of her body is the most miniscule wave of pleasure. It’s endlessly frustrating.

The obvious solution is to bring it up to Parkinson. Hermione knows that’s what any of her friends would tell her to do. Parkinson had seemed suitably apologetic about the time she kept Hermione out of the shower, after their argument was done...but that conversation had also taken a turn for the unexpected, one that Hermione is too nervous to repeat. So she says nothing. Every night she promises herself that if it happens again, she’ll bring it up to her roommate; every night it happens, and she chickens out.

Until Thursday.

She’s only half-listening to Ron and Harry’s conversation after dinner, most of her attention on the Ancient Runes calculations she has spread out in front of her. In fact, it’s the pause in their conversation that draws her attention; the boys have been keeping up a steady stream of chatter since they got to the common room, but when she looks up to see what’s silenced them, they’re watching her with guilty expressions.

“What?”

Ron shifts in his seat. “Didn’t know if you’d be uncomfortable,” he says. “Us discussing this in front of you.”

She has no idea what they were talking about, but can’t think of anything that would make her uncomfortable. “No, of course not. Carry on.”

Her problem set has no chance of keeping her attention now. She tries to resume focus, but most of her attention is on her friends.

“Anyway, I thought she didn’t even like me,” Ron says to Harry. “But boy was I wrong.”

“Demelza Robins!” Harry says. “I never would have guessed.”

“Neither would I.” Ron leans in as he lowers his voice. “She suggested some things _I_ hadn’t even heard of.”

It’s obvious what sorts of _things_ Ron is talking about. Hermione’s cheeks grow hot. The boys don’t notice; they aren’t looking at her anymore.

“She was so comfortable with everything,” Ron says. “It made me feel a lot more comfortable too,” and Hermione knows it’s not a crack at her, knows he probably thinks she isn’t even listening anymore, but it hurts all the same. The reminder that she’d fucked up their relationship, a relationship with one of her best friends, something that _should_ have worked, because of her sexual hang-ups, now also reminds her that she can’t get herself off successfully even while alone.

Hermione spends another half-hour feeling sorry for herself before she makes her excuses and trudges upstairs. She’s too amped up to sleep, and makes a feeble attempt at reading, but she can’t focus. Her restlessness dissipates when she hears the dormitory door open and shut as Parkinson comes in.

Some part of her recognises that she’s already decided what she’s going to do, and is seriously questioning her own decision making skills; the other part of her doesn’t care. If Ron can do _things_ with Demelza Robins, the least Hermione deserves is a satisfying wank. And if her body needs the reminder of what it felt like for Pansy Parkinson to verbally guide her, then so be it. Today, Hermione is too desperate to care.

She lies on her back, barely daring to move, as Parkinson goes about her evening routine: shoes kicked off, bag dropped on chair. The bathroom door opens and, shortly after, the faucet turns on and off; then there’s the squeak of the curtain rings on metal as Parkinson gets into bed.

Hermione rests one hand on her waistband, waiting. Her heart is pounding in her chest. Her lips are dry, and she wets them with her tongue.

She doesn’t have to wait long for Parkinson’s first gasp. It’s cut off, aborted, as if she’s trying to stay quiet; for the first time all year, Hermione wishes Parkinson would be louder. She cups her hand over her groin the way Parkinson told her to last time, plucks at a nipple through her sleep shirt. They’re already hard, and she’s already wet. Although the teasing was a revelation, this time Hermione doesn’t need it. Parkinson moans, long and loud, and Hermione slides a hand below her waistband.

“Oh, _yes,_ ” Parkinson pants. Hermione bites her lip, thumbing over her clit. There’s some kind of rhythmic noise happening in the next bed over, and by the sound of things, Parkinson is enjoying herself plenty. Her breathing is harsh, ragged. Hermione runs her fingers between her folds, picturing the sweat that might be gathering at Pansy’s temples, and shivers.

It’s different than last time. Without Parkinson’s careful instructions, Hermione falls into the same patterns as usual, but this time she knows she won’t be left unsatisfied. She presses two fingers to her clit and closes her eyes, and doesn’t let herself think about what she’s doing. There’s only pleasure, and the way her body responds to it – wet labia, swollen clitoris, trembling thighs. Pansy’s moaning, or maybe Hermione is, or they both are; in her own bed, Hermione can be shameless in her pursuit of orgasm, and she is. She thrusts into her hand and cries out as she comes, dimly registering the similar noises coming from Parkinson’s bed. It’s only after her breathing has steadied, and she’s thought to cast a cleansing spell over herself, that she realises she definitely hadn’t stayed as quiet as she’d initially intended to.

There’s no way Parkinson hadn’t heard her, and she’s expecting a rude remark from across the room, or a head peeking in between her bed curtains, but nothing of the sort happens. In fact, it’s only once Parkinson begins to snore that Hermione realises how long she’s been lying there waiting. She hurries to the bathroom to brush her teeth and makes it back to bed without waking Parkinson. As she falls asleep, body still pleasantly relaxed, she promises herself that it won’t happen again.

*

It keeps happening.

They never talk about it. They rarely talk at all, in fact, even less than they did at the very beginning of the year, when Parkinson couldn’t resist making snide comments and Hermione always rose to the bait. Once or twice there’s an exchange about something unavoidable – Hermione’s missing library book, the broken faucet in their loo which needs to be fixed – and a few times Hermione catches Parkinson watching her from across the common room, but other than that, they don’t speak.

But it continues. Usually whoever gets back to the room first is waiting with the bed curtains drawn. When that’s Hermione, she holds her breath as Pansy moves around the room, learning her nightly routine through sound alone. When she’s the second to arrive, she tries to hurry without making it obvious that she is, aware that Pansy’s listening from inside her own curtains.

After they’re both in bed, it’s always Parkinson who starts it – who makes the first noise, at least. Often Hermione is already touching herself. Always, Hermione is already wet. She’ll catch the hint of a sigh, or a cut-off moan from the other bed, and that’s her cue – she makes her exhales a little louder, lets a whine slip out from her lips. When she and Ron had sex, making any noise felt like a performance, because nothing came naturally, but this is different: she’s not pretending, only amplifying how she already feels, with Parkinson echoing back across the gulf between their beds.

Aside from the awkwardness in the morning, when they wake up around the same time and have to dance around each other as they get ready for class, Hermione feels better than ever. Sleep comes easily once her body is sated, and her patience stretches a little farther – always important, as Harry and Ron still rely on her for academic help more than she would like. Ron’s new relationship with Demelza Robins doesn’t even bother her, although that is largely due to another major change: now that she’s having regular orgasms, Hermione doesn’t feel like such a failure anymore.

She’s sitting on the banks of the Great Lake with Luna – the larger group they started off in having splintered off – when Luna surprises her by commenting on her newly relaxed state.

“It’s good to see,” Luna tells her, looking up from where she’s colouring in a detailed diagram of a very spiny insect. “I know you weren’t excited to be rooming with Pansy, but I’m glad you’re not letting it affect you too much.”

“Right, well…” Hermione doesn’t know what to say. “It hasn’t been as bad as I expected.”

Luna nods once, sagely. “I was going to recommend lemonwort,” she says. “But it looks as if you no longer need it.”

Hermione often has difficulty following Luna’s leaps of thought, and today is no exception. “Lemonwort?”

“It’s used for sexual healing,” Luna says blithely. “Aiding in relaxation and arousal. It’s most often used with partners, but I don’t see why it couldn’t work for solo activities as well.”

Hermione’s face burns, and she stammers. “Um– well–”

“Ginny told me you were having some trouble in that area.”

Hermione scowls. That certainly wasn’t Ginny’s information to share. “She was mistaken.”

“She was?” Luna looks confused. “But–”

“It’s not an issue anymore,” Hermione interrupts, hoping that Luna will drop the subject. She does, and, as soon as she can, Hermione makes her escape, heading straight for the Gryffindor Common Room so she can catch Ginny before dinner.

Even though she doesn’t live in Gryffindor Tower anymore, Hermione’s still been given access to the password, and inside she sees Ron and Neville huddled up in a corner with a few seventh-years, playing a game of Exploding Snap. Ginny’s not with them, but it doesn’t take long to find her sitting in a window seat, ignoring her Herbology textbook in favor of staring outside. She startles when she notices Hermione standing next to her, arms crossed.

“Hermione!” She sits up, letting the book drop onto the seat beside her. “Do you need something?”

Hermione sits down, not wanting to draw attention. “Next time I tell you about...personal problems of a _private _nature, do I have to specify that it’s not information I want you to share?”__

__Ginny frowns. “Hermione, what do you mean?”_ _

__“When we talked about...the _wanking,_ ” Hermione whispers. “That wasn’t information you were supposed to share with anyone else!” She glances across the room at their friends, but they haven’t noticed anything amiss._ _

__“I wouldn’t, Hermione, you know that!”_ _

__“Then why did Luna just suggest that lemonwort might help me relax for ‘solo sexual activities?’”_ _

__Ginny sighs and shakes her head. “Oh, I told her it would make you uncomfortable if she brought that up.”_ _

__“I don’t understand why you were talking about it with other people at all!”_ _

__“I wasn’t, Hermione!” Ginny insists. “I don’t go spreading other people’s business. It just happened to come up when Luna and I were talking, and well...it’s _Luna,_ ” she says, as if that is enough explanation. “You know?”_ _

__Hermione knows that Luna and Ginny are close, and have only grown closer since the beginning of the year, but she’s still upset. Ginny can tell, because she reaches out to squeeze Hermione’s shoulder. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”_ _

__“Alright,” Hermione relents._ _

__Ginny picks up her textbook, flipping open the front cover and letting it drop shut. “How are things going there anyway?” she asks. “I don’t mean to pry, but you’ve certainly seemed more relaxed the past few weeks.”_ _

__Hermione’s _felt_ more relaxed, but she doesn’t like to think of how tense she must have seemed before, if both Luna and Ginny are commenting on how she’s changed. “It’s been fine,” she says, because she doesn’t know how to begin to explain what’s happening between her and Pansy. Luckily Ginny lets the subject drop, asking Hermione instead about the Herbology assignment they have due the following week._ _

____

*

The corridor is quiet, and Hermione so caught up in her thoughts that she startles when someone slides into the seat beside her. She startles again when she looks up and sees that it’s Parkinson, wearing a black hoodie over her uniform and carrying an overstuffed notebook that Hermione recognises from their dormitory. The past few weeks, they’ve been avoiding each other so thoroughly that it’s almost a shock to see her face; Parkinson seems equally surprised, brown eyes wide when they meet Hermione’s.

She recovers quickly though, nodding to McGonagall’s closed office door.

“You’re here for office hours as well?”

Hermione nods. “Yes. I’m doing this research project with Vector, but McGonagall’s helping me get hold of materials that we don’t have at Hogwarts.” She swallows, looks down at Parkinson’s bulging schoolbag. “What about you?”

“I’m in the beginning stages of becoming an Animagus.”

“ _What?_ ” Hermione shakes her head. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“But that’s so much work!”

“And?” Parkinson’s voice is icy, and Hermione winces as she realises how that came out.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean – I’m sure you can do it,” she says. “I wouldn’t want to go through the process, personally. At least not right now.”

Parkinson shrugs, looking away. “It’s a bit of a tradition in my family,” she explains. “I had no intention of doing it – I mean, I just wasn’t interested, but now...I suppose I want the connection.”

She’s lost in thought, and Hermione sits there, wondering what really changed Parkinson’s mind, and how they’ve lived together for almost two months and Hermione had no idea she was so smart, but before she can ask another question Parkinson pulls herself back from wherever she’s been.

“What’s your research project on?” she asks, and Hermione squirms.

“It’s about the historically gendered bias towards sex magic,” she says, and Pansy blinks.

“What?”

“Well, in more ancient times, sex magic was a lot more common – using intercourse or other sexual acts as conduits to amplify spells? But the casters were predominantly men, because sexism, so there’s not been a lot of research into what kind of magics women can perform when they harness that power.”

“Wow. That’s...not what I was expecting you to say.”

The implication is clear, and Hermione blushes. “Professor Vector suggested the topic,” she admits, not elaborating on how uncomfortable she’d found it to begin with. “It’s part of the application process to become an Unspeakable, you have to do an independent study on a less well understood area of magic. I’m–”

The door opens, and Ernie hurries past them, glancing at his watch. McGonagall peers out the door after him, greeting them both.

“Miss Granger, Miss Parkinson. Which of you was here first?”

“Granger was,” Pansy says. Hermione is loath to end their conversation, but has no excuse to stay, so she stands and follows McGonagall into her office. When she looks back from the door, Parkinson already has her head buried in her notebook.

*

That night, Hermione lies in bed waiting, as always, for the first noises from Parkinson’s side of the room. She got back from the library late, but that never made a difference before; as the minutes tick by with no sign of life from her roommate, however, she’s forced to admit that Parkinson is either ignoring her or already asleep. Hermione toys with the idea of masturbating alone, but quickly discards it. It wasn’t so long ago that she got herself off once every few weeks instead of every night; one day without an orgasm won’t kill her.

She’s restless the next day. Her dreams were strange and inconsistent, and she wakes up still feeling bleary; it’s hard to focus on her classes, and the general excitement of the rest of the students doesn’t help. Tomorrow is the first Hogsmeade trip of the year, and even though the prospect isn’t as exciting to Hermione as it once was, the school is abuzz, and it’s hard to ignore. Listening to her friends chatter at lunch, Hermione smiles; their enthusiasm is infectious, and she’s starting to warm up to the idea of spending the day with them off campus.

“I heard Madam Rosmerta’s put a bunch of new items on the menu at the Three Broomsticks,” Neville says. “Hannah’s eager to see what they are.”

“Wish I could try them,” Ron moans. “Demelza’s got her heart set on Madam Puddifoot’s and, well, who am I to say no?” Seamus laughs, making a crude comment about what Demelza might do to thank him, and Ron turns tomato-red but grins, which is all the confirmation the rest of the table needs about how true Seamus’s statement is.

“Harry? Ginny?” Neville asks.

Harry shakes his head. “I owed this one a favor,” he says, elbowing Ron, “and he’s got me set up on a double date with one of Demelza’s friends.”

It’s a complaint, but Harry doesn’t actually look that upset. Hermione’s surprised, knowing how Harry has generally felt about the interest girls often have in only his fame, but maybe there’s more to the story she doesn’t know. Or maybe she hasn’t spent enough time talking to her friends lately, and his opinion on everything has changed.

“Luna and I will come to the Three Broomsticks with you,” Ginny says, and Neville grins.

“What about you, Hermione?” The question is kind, but Hermione’s short-lived enthusiasm about the upcoming Hogsmeade visit has left her. She shakes her head.

“I have a lot of work to catch up on,” she says. “I should probably stay at the castle.” Her friends’ good-natured teasing about how she studies too much is, at this point, almost a routine; she endures it for the few minutes it lasts, until the conversation inevitably moves on to something else.

*

Contrary to what she told her friends, Hermione is not behind on her schoolwork. She has a stack of books sitting on her desk waiting to be read for her Unspeakable research, but there’s no urgency to the project; she’ll crack them open later, but first she’s intending to sleep in, then take advantage of the empty castle and extended weekend breakfast hours. She wakes at her usual time and makes a bleary-eyed trip to the bathroom, then snuggles back under the covers, letting sleep steal over her once more.

When she wakes again, the sun is fully out; the rays coming through the window make a pattern of yellow blocks on the stone floor. She glances at the clock – breakfast will only be available for another half-hour, so she needs to hurry if she wants to shower before she gets there. Parkinson’s curtains are open and her bed nicely made – she must have already left for Hogsmeade. Hermione Summons her slippers and grabs her towel and soap, shouldering open the door to the bathroom as she stifles a yawn.

The air in the room is thick with steam, the mirror above the sink fogged. Hermione’s still waking up, and she’s crossed the room to hang her towel on the hook before she realises that the shower is still running. Parkinson’s in the stall, shadow faintly outlined against the curtain, a slip of pale skin visible in the gap between fabric and tile. Hermione briefly wonders why she didn’t say anything when she heard Hermione come in, but it quickly becomes apparent that her roommate is too distracted to care.

Pansy is wanking.

The noises, by now, are as familiar to Hermione as her own; the shower muffles them, but she can still hear the regular _uh, uh, uh_ that Parkinson lets out with every exhale, the groan that echoes around the room as she does something particularly good. Hermione finds herself stepping sideways for a better view through the gap at the edge of the shower curtain; Parkinson’s leaning against the wall, dark hair plastered to her neck, as the water hits her breasts and sluices down her chest. The sight steals Hermione’s breath – the noise, even the _smell_ is something she’s used to, but not this, and any idle imaginings she’s had about what Parkinson might look like in the next bed can’t even begin to compare – and then Parkinson opens her eyes, and Hermione’s heart jumps into reckless motion in her chest.

She’s been caught. There’s no way out of this now; Parkinson’s seen her, their eyes are locked, and any feeble plan Hermione had had about turning around and pretending she’d never seen this – going back to wank in her own bed, most likely – crumbles into dust. Parkinson’s eyes are dark, _lustful,_ so different from her usual expression when she looks at Hermione – so different from _anyone’s_ expression when they look at Hermione. Heat blooms over her skin, and between her legs. Pansy’s eyes are full of want, and Hermione suspects her own are too. Parkinson licks her lips, and Hermione’s knees feel weak.

She’s expecting an admonishment or a cruel joke when Parkinson opens her mouth, but what comes out is a challenge. “Like what you see?” she asks, teasing, and her hand is still moving, she hasn’t stopped wanking, even though Hermione is _standing there watching her_ – her hand dips lower, and she groans, eyes fluttering momentarily shut, and Hermione sways on her feet.

The past few weeks have not prepared her for how to handle this situation.

She still hasn’t said anything. Parkinson opens her eyes again, looks at Hermione through her lashes. Seems to take pity on her, because she twists to the side to give Hermione a better view – full-on instead of profile – and reaches up to thumb her own nipple, shuddering prettily as she does. Hermione’s wet, probably already soaked through her pants, and she hasn’t even _done_ anything. 

Parkinson drags her hand up her front, exposing slick pink between her legs. Hermione can’t truly see her through the water, but she wants to – oh _God,_ she wants to, and what does that mean? – but she doesn’t have time to think about it, because Parkinson speaks again.

“Well?” she says. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

If she were being rational, Hermione would say no. She would turn around, leave the bathroom, _not_ wank about what she just saw, and never speak to Parkinson again. But if she were being rational, Hermione also would have ignored the challenge from Parkinson that started this whole wanking thing.

She steps forward.

Tension that she hadn’t noticed bleeds out of Parkinson’s body. She slumps down, jutting out her hips, and grinds into her palm. “You can’t wear your pyjamas in the shower,” she says, and Hermione maybe hasn’t decided that she’s getting in the shower, but she knows what Parkinson is asking. She pushes her sleep shorts and her pants off her waist, lets them drop to the floor before she steps out of them; her shirt still reaches past her hips, long enough to cover things that need covering. If she wanted to, she could back out now. Instead, she grabs the hem, and Parkinson watches with hungry eyes as Hermione lifts it up and over her head, then tosses it on the floor.

When she steps out of her slippers, the tile is cold on her feet, and the sound of metal on metal rasps as she pulls the shower curtain back. She closes it behind her, trapping the heat within the stall; takes a moment for a deep breath as she faces away from Parkinson, wondering what the fuck she’s doing. Hesitates only a little when she turns back to face her roommate.

Parkinson’s face is flushed, her eyes wide and bright with want. She’s still got a hand on her cunt, but she’s not moving it anymore; she seems to have lost track of where she was, too caught up in watching Hermione. At a loss, Hermione steps back, presses herself against the opposite wall, mirroring Parkinson’s position.

“You wanted me to join you?” she says, an attempt at haughtiness, and is pleased her voice doesn’t tremble. She runs one hand over her body – skims the side of her breast, brings it to rest low on her stomach. She desperately wants to touch herself but is suddenly hesitant to make that last move.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Parkinson spits, pushing off the wall. She knocks into Hermione, pressing her flush against the cold tile; Parkinson’s body, in comparison, is warm and wet all along her front. Hermione whimpers, tilting her hips up, and Parkinson kisses her, tangling her fingers in Hermione’s hair. It’s a good kiss, strong and hot, and on instinct Hermione wraps her arms around Parkinson, pulling their bodies flush together.

The kiss goes on for long enough that Parkinson’s tongue is in her mouth, and Hermione’s switched to threading her fingers through Parkinson’s hair, made slick by the water, when suddenly it shifts. Parkinson’s been groping at her shoulders and hips, but when she slides one hand to Hermione’s arse, it _does_ something to Hermione. She breaks the kiss to gasp, pressing forward against nothing, because Parkinson’s broken their embrace. Hermione’s distressed and disoriented for only a moment, because then Parkinson drops to her knees, and Hermione groans.

“Are you going to–” she starts, and she doesn’t even know how to name it, but it doesn’t matter because Parkinson knows what she’s talking about.

“Unless you don’t want me to,” Parkinson says, from her place between Hermione’s thighs. She runs light fingers along Hermione’s shins, making her shiver. “Can I?”

Hermione nods, feeling too shaken for words, and her heart speeds up to double-time as Parkinson leans in, parting Hermione’s folds with her tongue.

Hermione yelps, throwing her head to the side; Parkinson reaches for her hips, holding her steady as she continues to tease. After a minute, her heart rate slows, and her trembling eases; then Parkinson releases one of her hips in favor of running her fingers between Hermione’s folds, spreading her open for easier access to her clit, and Hermione loses it all over again. Parkinson’s fingers are cold against her overheated skin, but her mouth is hot, hot, hot and wet. The steam in the stall is cloying but the tiles against her back are still cool. Parkinson touches her like she knows how to do it, runs bold fingers along Hermione’s core just shy of where she wants them, licks at her clit with a precision that makes Hermione’s muscles weak.

She’s had this done to her before, but it feels like the first time – there’s no vague sense of guilt, no fear that she’s taking too long; if she could stop to think, she might even dread her orgasm because it means this will be over. Pansy’s eyes are closed in delight, and she hums her approval as she tongues Hermione’s cunt; the vibrations echo through her and she shudders, canting her hips forward. Her labia are swollen, her clit bathed in sensation; heat pools in her gut as she rides Parkinson’s face, propriety thrown to the wind as she moans and moans.

“I’m– I’m–!”

She can’t even get the words out, but it doesn’t matter. Parkinson’s there, with the perfect suction around Hermione’s clit to take her over the edge; she’s there, with clever fingers and lips, to turn the aftershocks into a smaller climax of its own; she’s there, face pressed to Hermione’s thigh and hand tucked between her own legs, splayed out on the floor, bringing herself to a shivering climax before Hermione has fully regained brain function.

Parkinson looks up at her, wet tendrils of hair clinging to her face and neck, and Hermione can’t stop herself from dropping down to join Pansy, pulling her into a messy kiss. As they grasp at each other desperately while the water beats down around them, she knows there’s no going back from here.

*

On Tuesdays, the eighth years’ last class of the day is Charms. This Wednesday, Flitwick has given them the second half of class to review and practice the spells they’ve learned so far this year. Hermione is only taking Charms so she can sit the N.E.W.T. – when they were on the run, she taught herself to do far more complicated magic than anything they’ll learn in this class – so she’s mostly helping Ron, Neville, and Padma as they go through the list of spells. That’s what she intended to do, at least, before Parkinson sat down at the desk behind hers. She’s working with Nott and Ernie MacMillan, who, from the sound of things, are arguing over the proper wrist movement for a Delayed Finding spell; Parkinson’s not participating in the conversation, though, and when Hermione glances back she sees brown eyes watching her.

It sets her heart to hammering in her chest, and she forces her attention back to her classmates. There hasn’t been a repeat of their Saturday morning tryst, although not from lack of desire on Hermione’s part. Sunday she’d spent in the library, and Monday night she’d promised to spend with her friends; she’s got an essay to work on tonight, but the heat of Pansy’s eyes on the back of her neck makes her reassess its importance. When she glances back again, Parkinson licks her bottom lip and winks.

Hermione swivels forward in a flash, knocking a stack of Padma’s notes on the floor. She apologizes profusely as Padma summons them with a spell, frowning.

“You alright, Hermione?” Neville asks.

“Fine!”

None of her friends seem convinced. “You sure?” Ron asks. “You’re looking a bit...pink.”

From behind her, she can hear Parkinson’s badly-disguised snicker.

“Just found it a bit hot for a moment.” She uses a spare piece of parchment to fan herself and makes a show of lifting her hair off of her neck. “I’ll be fine. Carry on.”

She pulls her hair over one shoulder, tilting her head to the side to stretch her neck. From behind, there’s a cut-off gasp that she instantly recognises as Parkinson.

When she looks back again, Parkinson has her eyes on her book, but her cheeks are flushed. Hermione grins. She stretches her arms above her head, arching her back and twisting to give Parkinson the best view of her shirt pulled tight across her chest.

> Image Description: A drawing of two rows of students in Charms class. In the front row are Hermione and Padma. In the row behind them are Pansy, Nott, and Ernie. Hermione stretches her arms above her head with slight smile on her face while Pansy watches. Hermione wears a white dress shirt. Pansy wears a white dress shirt and a grey sweater vest. The other students are focused on their classwork. Art by [kysprite](https://kysprite.tumblr.com/). End description.

Before she can look and see if she’s gotten a reaction, the clatter of an inkwell falling over pulls her attention back to her table. Ron is siphoning up the mess with his wand, and Padma is glaring at her. Neville’s cheeks are red, and he struggles to keep his eyes on her face when he talks.

“Hermione, are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” she says, feigning ignorance. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Padma clears her throat. “So, the foundation of a successful Weather Prediction spell…”

Hermione pretends to be studying her notes as Padma reads aloud. She already knows how to cast a successful Weather Prediction spell, and how to adjust it to record or predict further into the future, which they won’t learn for another month, according to Flitwick’s syllabus. She tells herself that it’s still important to review the material, but she can hear Parkinson laughing at something Nott said behind her, and the temptation to taunt her again grows too strong to resist.

Turning in her chair, Hermione pretends to be reaching for something in her bag. She hitches her skirt up as she leans down to check her shoelaces, meeting Pansy’s eyes as she does; they’re intent on the skin she’s revealed, just as she hoped they would be. When she sits back up, Hermione crosses her legs and doesn’t adjust her skirt when it pools further up her leg. She spends the rest of the lesson tracing patterns on her exposed thigh where only Parkinson can see.

She gets another round of weird looks from her classmates when Parkinson snaps a quill behind her and she bursts into laughter – from Ron’s incredulous glare, it’s obvious he thinks she’s laughing at a Slytherin’s misfortune, and she doesn’t care to correct him. When Flitwick dismisses them at the end of class, she falls back from her friends, letting them make their way to the common room without her.

Her detour is rewarded a moment later when Parkinson grabs her arm and pulls her into an empty classroom.

Their bags hit the floor as they hit the nearest desk, dust rising as Pansy pushes Hermione to sit on it and it skids across the floor. Arms and hands are everywhere as they kiss wildly, Hermione wrapping her legs around Pansy’s hips to pull her closer. She’s never felt like this – this reckless abandon, this urgent need that thrums through her veins. She pulls Parkinson’s face to hers, making the kiss even deeper and more messy, and wonders if this is what other people feel like all the time – people who have had successful relationships, people who didn’t spend their teenage years fighting a war. Then Parkinson’s hands are on her thighs, and she stops worrying about why she feels like this, deciding instead to enjoy it.

It’s easy to fall backwards and let Parkinson flip up her skirt, easy to hook her heels on the edge of the desk and reach for Parkinson’s hair as her knickers are Vanished. Hard to believe that a scant few weeks ago the idea of wanking was exhausting, so certain was she of disappointment; now it feels like no time at all before she’s coming beneath Parkinson’s talented lips.

Hermione eagerly reaches up as Parkinson climbs on top of her, straddling her stomach and lifting her own skirt out of the way to push a hand beneath her knickers. She brings herself off quickly and efficiently, one hand planted beside Hermione’s head for balance. She presses kisses to the thin skin of Parkinson’s wrist as she moans and gasps, too sated for anything else, and leans up for a kiss when Pansy collapses, trembling, with the force of her orgasm. As their breathing steadies, the only noise in the abandoned classroom is that of Hermione’s thundering heart.

*

“Have you finished the Potions essay yet?” Harry asks. There’s a textbook from the Restricted Section open in front of him, and he’s been holding a magnifying glass over the same part for so long that the page has started smoking.

Hermione reaches out and makes him lower the magnifying glass, shaking her head. “Not yet.”

There’s a clatter as Ron drops his quill on the table, and then they’re both staring at her. “Have you started it?”

“No.”

Harry’s jaw drops. “You haven’t even started?”

“It’s not due until next week,” Hermione says defensively.

“But it’s an essay,” Ron says. “For a class. It has to be thirty inches long. Slughorn wants us to do research!”

“I’ll get it done.” Hermione sighs. “It’s not like you to be so concerned about schoolwork.”

“But it _is_ like you,” Harry says. He looks at the book in front of him. “I don’t think I’ve ever started an assignment before you did.”

“Maybe I’ve finally been a good influence on you,” Hermione says primly.

“Have you done the Charms reading?”

Hermione turns to face Ron. “I read the whole textbook last year.”

“What about the Transfiguration short answers? That problem set you had for Ancient Runes?”

“That’s what I’m working on right now.” Hermione tilts her book up so Ron can see. “What are you trying to get at, Ron?”

“You haven’t been worried about classes for weeks now.”

“And?” Hermione asks. “Shouldn’t you be happy about that? Haven’t you always wanted me to calm down about school?”

“We’ve been telling you to do that for seven years and you never have. Isn’t that in itself reason enough to be concerned?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She turns to look at Harry. “You don’t agree with him, do you?”

Harry looks uncomfortable with the confrontation, but after a quick glance at Ron, his expression when he faces her is resolute. “I do,” he says. “You’ve been acting differently for the past month. I’m not saying it isn’t a good thing for you to be less stressed about classes, but...we’re concerned about you.”

“And if something’s going on, you can talk to us about it,” Ron jumps in.

Hermione looks between the two of them. They’ve been her best friends since they were kids, but there’s no way she’s going to tell them about what’s happening between her and Parkinson. For a myriad of reasons, starting with the fact that she’s not even sure herself, so she wouldn’t know how to explain it, and ending with the fact that Ron is still her ex, which makes the prospect too uncomfortable for words. Above all, Hermione knows they wouldn’t understand – they didn’t get her discomfort with Parkinson’s wanking earlier in the year, and they would be baffled as to how she could overlook their past enough to do… _things_ with her now.

It’s easier to lie.

“Nothing’s going on,” she says. Ron looks like he’s going to interrupt, but she cuts him off. “I would tell you if there was! I promise.” She sighs. “It’s weird being back, you know? Getting into the routine of classes again. I’m ahead in half the classes anyway, and there’s not much to keep my attention.”

This they seem to understand. Ron nods, relenting, and the tension goes out of Harry’s shoulders. “It is weird,” he mutters.

Hermione makes herself take a deep breath, trying to ease the racing of her heart. Smiles. “How’s _your_ Potions essay going?” she asks slyly.

Harry groans, burying his face in his hands. Ron laughs, and Hermione joins in, trying to put her worries out of her mind.

*

Hermione has stopped trying to do homework in her room.

In past years, it was something she had enjoyed doing. Sitting on her bed with the curtains drawn was often the only place she could enjoy uninterrupted silence – no noisy neighbors or friends asking how she’d answered the third question. But rooming with Pansy Parkinson had changed that. At the beginning of the year, she avoided working in their room because she wanted to spend as little time around Parkinson as possible. Then there had been the few weeks where they were avoiding each other. Now, she doesn’t have any issues spending time in their room, but it isn’t a very productive work environment for her.

Because if both she and Pansy are in the room, they’re probably doing something besides schoolwork.

Hermione hums, sliding her hand up and into Pansy’s hair. It earns her a low groan, and Parkinson’s hands moving down from her waist to cup her arse. Hermione’s on top of Parkinson on her bed, having pushed her down and straddled her when she came into their room and saw Pansy standing in the middle of the floor, doing a poor job of pretending that she hadn’t been waiting. Now she arches below Hermione, and Hermione moves the hand not tangled in Pansy’s hair to palm her breast. Starched cotton is stretched tight over her curves, and Hermione likes taking her time, but she’s starting to feel impatient.

Breaking the kiss to nip at Parkinson’s jaw, she brings her hand to Parkinson’s buttons. It’s clumsy to open them one-handed, and Pansy’s hands slipping under the hem of her skirt are a distraction, but once she’s got a few undone she leans in to kiss down from the hollow of Pansy’s throat. Pansy is grabbing her head to pull her up into another kiss when there’s a knock on their door and, almost immediately, Ginny walks right in.

“Hermione, aren’t we – holy _fuck,_ ” she swears, staring at them slack-jawed. Hermione is at a loss for words, frozen. Her skirt is rucked up around her hips, and one of her hands is still under Parkinson’s shirt. She needs to _move,_ but her body won’t comply with her demands, and Pansy is equally motionless beneath her.

“I’ll just...meet you in the common room,” Ginny says, backing out of the room. The _thump_ of the door closing behind her breaks whatever spell has left Hermione frozen. She throws herself off of Pansy, stumbling to her feet and smoothing her skirt down, trying to slow her now-thundering heart. Pansy sits up more slowly, clenching the side of the bed, shoulder hunched and body tense. Her shirt is still half-open, and through the gaping fabric Hermione can see the lace of her bra.

“Oh shit, oh _shit._ ” Hermione scrubs her hands over her face. “I can’t believe this, oh my god. What am I going to say to Ginny?”

Parkinson seems to be turning her panic inwards, whereas all Hermione wants to do is scream. “That was...not ideal.”

“Of course it wasn’t fucking ideal!” Hermione snaps. “Why did she even–” she starts, and then groans. She’d completely forgotten, but she and Ginny have been meeting every week to work on their joint Herbology project, and this week she told Ginny to come by her room after dinner so they could go observe the nocturnal plants Sprout has them studying this week.

“What?” Parkinson asks, when Hermione’s been silent too long.

“Nothing. I’ve been stupid. I told her to meet me so we could go do homework.” She sighs. 

“Oh.” Pansy still looks shaken. Hermione wonders if she should stay and comfort her, then realises she wouldn’t know how to do that even if she wanted to. Besides, she should probably go run damage control with Ginny.

“Look, I should...are you going to be alright? Because I should probably go catch up with Ginny before she freaks…”

Parkinson looks upset at that, but only for a moment. “Yeah, of course, go on,” she says, standing and starting to button her shirt. “I have some homework I could get done anyway.”

“Right,” Hermione says. She smooths her hair down with one hand, hoping she doesn’t look too much of a mess, and grabs her bag. At the door, she stops and looks back. Parkinson is still standing in the space between their beds, looking lost. “I’ll see you later.”

She doesn’t wait for a response as she makes her way down the stairs to the common room. Ginny is sitting with Dean and Seamus by the fireplace, but stands up when she sees Hermione, falling in step with her at the door.

“To the greenhouses?”

Hermione nods, breathing a sigh of relief that she’s not immediately being interrogated.

Her respite lasts only moments. They leave the common room and set off through the castle, and when they reach the Entrance Hall, Ginny glances at Hermione.

“So. Do I have to ask you about it?”

Hermione winces. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“That’s not an option,” Ginny says flippantly, then looks horrified with herself. “Sorry. I mean– of course it’s an option, if you really don’t want to talk about it. I just thought–”

“It’s fine,” Hermione interrupts. “If anyone had to find out that way, I’d rather it was you.”

“No one else knows?”

Hermione shakes her head. “Unless Parkinson’s told someone.” The thought makes her stomach flip unpleasantly. “I haven’t asked.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Few weeks.”

Ginny’s grin is sly. “So when you were complaining that she spent too much time masturbating…”

“That was before, yes.” Hermione blushes, but the cool evening wind that buffets them as they make their way across the lawn quickly cools her cheeks.

Ginny hums. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised. I had no idea you were gay.”

Hermione frowns, and Ginny of course notices. “Or bi? Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume…”

“I’m not,” Hermione interrupts.

“Not bi?”

“Not any of it!”

Ginny raises her eyebrows. “Sorry, but did you or did you not just admit that you’ve been having sex with Pansy Parkinson for the past several weeks?”

“That doesn’t mean–”

“Doesn’t mean what? That you like girls? Why else would you be fucking her?”

Hermione’s face burns at the crude language. “It’s not really fucking. It’s just about her helping me figure out what feels good.” Ginny scoffs, but Hermione blusters on. “I’m not like that!”

“Really? If Parkinson can help you figure out what feels good, why wasn’t the same true of Ron?”

“How did you–”

“I’m not an idiot, Hermione. He’s my brother, and I can read between the lines well enough. Obviously things weren’t ace in the bedroom, or you guys would still be together.”

Ginny’s right, but Hermione doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of admitting it. Ron was one of her best friends – still is – and she couldn’t make a relationship with him work. What does that say about her?

Her face must be doing something, because Ginny’s expression softens. “Look, Hermione, I know it’s tough, realising this about yourself. If you ever want to talk about it–”

“There’s nothing _to_ talk about,” Hermione snaps. “I don’t care what you think is going on with me. I’m not _like_ that. I’m not gay!”

Ginny stops, forcing Hermione to turn around. Her face is stony. “Keep telling yourself whatever you need to, Hermione,” she says, before stomping away. Fallen leaves crunch under her feet as she hurries back up the path, leaving Hermione alone on the lawn, the crisp breeze twisting her robes around her ankles.

*

Hermione tends their plants in the greenhouse alone. It takes twice as long without Ginny, and by the time she’s finished, it’s dark outside and she’s missed dinner. Hermione breaks her own rule and goes to the kitchens to ask for a sandwich, which the house elves happily provide. She takes it to one of her favorite study spots, a little-used classroom down the hall from the library, and fumbles her way through two Ancient Runes translations before giving up. She can’t separate her thoughts enough to focus. Her conversation with Ginny plays over and over again in her head, and she’s worried that she might have upset Ginny and angry at her accusations in equal measure.

Most of all, she’s confused. Hermione hasn’t been thinking since this thing with Parkinson started – she’s just been doing. It’s not her usual way. She thought it was good for her to break some old habits, but now she’s not so sure.

She doesn’t want to face Parkinson, so she puts off going back to her room long after she’s stopped getting work done, hoping her roommate will be asleep when she gets back. Parkinson needs more than eight hours a night, so she goes to sleep as early as possible if she’s done all her schoolwork. It’s almost curfew by the time Hermione packs her things and returns to the eighth year dormitories, so she’s surprised to find Parkinson sitting up in bed reading when she opens their door.

Pansy puts down the book and waves her wand to bring up the lights. “You’re back late,” she says. “Is everything alright?”

Hermione’s resolve to ignore her roommate this evening, already weakened by her own lack of conviction, crumbles. She leaves her shoes and bag by the door, tossing her robes over her chair as she walks towards Parkinson’s bed.

“No,” she admits, voice hoarse from disuse. “But it will be.”

Parkinson watches with wide eyes as Hermione strips, leaving her clothes in a pile between their beds. When she’s fully naked, she lifts the covers, Pansy hurriedly scooting to the side to make room for her.

It’s warm between the sheets, and Pansy’s pyjamas are soft when she reaches out to grab her waist.

“Hermione?” she whispers.

“Please,” Hermione says, and leans in for a kiss. Pansy grants it to her, tipping her onto her back and sliding one hand into her hair. Hermione happily lets herself be pinned, wraps her legs around Pansy to keep her close. It’s slow, slower than it’s ever been between them. Pansy’s kisses are long and careful, like she’s trying to demonstrate as many different techniques as possible; like she’s trying to prove something to Hermione.

It’s Hermione who prompts her to take off her clothes, tugging at shoulders and hems until Pansy gets the message and pulls them off. It’s clumsy for her to do it in the bed, under the covers and above Hermione, but Hermione won’t let her go far; either of them getting up, she fears, will ruin the quiet softness between them. Instead she makes a poor attempt at helping, pushing Parkinson’s shorts and pants down with her toes. They end up tangled in with the sheets at the bottom of the bed, but it doesn’t matter; nothing matters except Pansy’s bare skin against hers.

It’s a revelation. Hermione can’t remember what it’s like to feel cold. She’s hungry for more, more of this feeling, and she grabs Parkinson all over, trying to get closer. She kisses deep, sucks a mark onto Pansy’s collarbone, and it isn’t enough.

But Pansy must know what she means by her desperate grabs, her scratching fingers. She shuffles her weight above Hermione, bringing her knees up to Hermione’s hips. Then she sits back, and first Hermione whines at the separation, but then Pansy grabs her leg, positioning Hermione where she wants her, shifting them both, and it’s magic.

“Oh fuck!” Hermione cries, flying up to grab at Parkinson’s arms, but it ruins the angle. Pansy guides her back down with one hand on her sternum, switches to playing with her breast once Hermione’s lying down again. Hermione arches into Pansy’s hand, stretches her leg for further contact, letting Pansy do what she wants with her body.

“Oh my god,” she moans. The slick rightness of Pansy’s cunt against hers overwhelms her. “That feels amazing,” she slurs, twisting her hands in her own hair.

Pansy pants above her, temples shiny with sweat. Her breasts bounce as she rolls her hips, and she licks her thumb and slides it over one pert nipple. Hermione groans, canting her hips up and up, trying to find a rhythm.

“You can touch yourself if you need to,” Pansy tells her, and the thought hadn’t even occurred to Hermione – she’s too overwhelmed by everything else she’s feeling – but when Pansy says it, she finds she wants to. She slides her hand down, finding her clit with familiar ease, and it’s even better with Pansy hot and wet against the back of her fingers.

She tries not to interrupt the contact between their bodies, hyper aware of Pansy moaning above her, until Pansy grabs her other hand and presses it to her folds.

She’s practically dripping, and Hermione feels uncoordinated as she tries to balance the different rhythms of each hand. It doesn’t seem to matter, though, because Pansy is clutching her leg and gasping.

“I’m close, _fuck._ ”

“Come on,” Hermione whispers, finding Pansy’s clit and vigorously circling. Pansy cries out as she comes, back bowing, hips juddering as she grasps at Hermione’s sides. When her shudders have subsided, she bends down to press a frantic kiss to Hermione’s lips, following it up with a path down her neck. Hot breath on her earlobe and Pansy’s fingers chasing her own out of the way to stroke her clit is what sends her over the edge. Pansy kisses her through it, swallowing and reciprocating Hermione’s moans, and gently climbs off of Hermione to curl up beside her.

A little hesitant and a lot out of breath, Hermione darts a nervous glance at Parkinson, who smiles as she presses a quick kiss to Hermione’s lips. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She’s been so distracted by pleasure that Hermione almost forgot what happened earlier that afternoon, but it all comes rushing back at Pansy’s words. To her surprise, the idea of sharing her thoughts with her roommate doesn’t put her off the way she thought it would.

“That’s a difficult question,” she says.

Parkinson huffs a laugh. “How’s this one, then: is everything alright with Ginny?”

Trust Pansy to see to the heart of the issue. Hermione rolls her head back, meeting Parkinson’s gaze. Their faces are so close, sharing the same pillow. This kind of intimacy ought to make Hermione uncomfortable.

“No,” she admits. “We got into a fight.”

“What about?”

Pansy’s voice is gentle, but Hermione can’t voice it, not right now. Not here. She knows that it won’t come out how she wants to, and she doesn’t need to have another fight about the topic today.

She shakes her head. “I can’t.”

“Alright,” Pansy says easily, sliding her arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “How’s your research project going?”

“What?” Hermione pushes up onto her elbow so she can better see Pansy’s face.

“Your research project. I thought you might like to talk about something else. Get your mind off of things.”

“Oh.” Hermione sinks back down, tucking herself against Pansy’s side. Pansy kisses her hair, faint gentle pressure, and she exhales, resting her arm across Parkinson’s stomach. “It’s going alright. I’m not finding as many resources as I expected. I guess people really don’t want to talk about my topic.”

“That’s good though, right? It means you’re drawing attention to something new.”

“Yes and no.” Hermione sighs. “I’m glad it really is an under-researched topic, but there’s only so much I can write about it without sources. I can’t launch a full-scale investigation into things while I’m still at Hogwarts.”

Pansy gives a quiet chuckle. “What have you found so far?”

“Most of what’s recorded about sex magic are rituals that claimed to take power from virginity. It started in the Middle Ages, and continued in some families up through the nineteenth century. Since women, especially purebloods, were expected to be virgins on their wedding nights, wizards created elaborate magical rituals that would be performed alongside wedding ceremonies.”

“So the witches were just a source of more power to them.”

Hermione grimaces. “Exactly. There are even a few examples of wizards who maintained multiple families, or had their first wives killed, in order to perform the rituals multiple times.”

Pansy shudders. “Merlin, that’s horrifying.”

“It is,” Hermione agrees, twisting her head to meet Pansy’s gaze. “You wanted a light subject change, right?” They both laugh. “How’s your thing going, by the way?”

“The Animagus process?” Pansy asks. Hermione nods. “It’s alright so far,” Pansy says. “I still haven’t done much. I probably won’t have the time to get very far with it until we graduate. It’s hard with classes.”

“Do you have any idea what animal you’ll be yet?”

Pansy shakes her head, the movement disrupting where Hermione is resting. “No. That doesn’t come until later. I have a few ideas of what I’d like to be, though.”

Hermione yawns, drowsiness beginning to set it. “Like what?”

“It’s a secret.” Pansy’s fingers are gentle as they push her hair off of her forehead. “We should get some sleep.”

“Alright,” Hermione says, and drifts off to Pansy’s reassuring touch on her shoulder.

*

Hermione moves slowly through the next few days. After a lunch where Ginny greets her with a frosty silence, pointed enough that even the people at the next table probably notice, Hermione starts showing up late to meals, minimising their interactions. Sometimes her friends will hang around while she eats – usually it’s Harry, Ron, or both – but sometimes she reads instead.

After the first impromptu sleepover with Parkinson, Hermione is worried about how her roommate will react – did she cross a line? Will Pansy be mad? But instead, it becomes a new routine. One of them will climb into the other’s bed, and sex turns into bedtime snuggles. It’s weird, but it works. Hermione discovers that Pansy has a wicked sense of humor and a secret love of Jane Austen, and that they both find Charms interesting and Divination a complete waste of time.

Despite the peace between herself and Pansy, Hermione isn’t entirely calm. She knows she needs to make things right with Ginny but isn’t sure how, partially because she’s not entirely sure what she’s done wrong. Her advice to someone else in this scenario would be to ask, but she’s hesitant to do that, fearing that the train of conversation could easily lead into another argument.

It turns out she doesn’t need to worry for long, though, because soon she has bigger problems to worry about.

Hermione comes back to their room next Tuesday night. She's worked through dinner to bang out an Ancient Runes problem set and half of a Transfiguration essay, and eager to relax and unwind with orgasms, and is surprised to find Parkinson tying her shoe.

She glances at the clock. It’s almost eight, far too late for Pansy to be meeting with a professor.

“Oh, good! You’re back.” Parkinson grins. She’s wearing her school jumper but no shirt underneath, and jeans instead of her usual skirt; Hermione wonders if thinking that Slytherin green looks sinfully good against Pansy’s skin makes her a bad Gryffindor. “I wanted to invite you to come to the meeting.”

Hermione puts her bag on her desk. “What meeting?”

“The Hogwarts Queer Women meeting,” Pansy says. “Weasley will be there, it might be a good chance for you to talk to her.”

“Hogwarts Queer Women?” Hermione repeats.

“Yeah.” Pansy props her foot on her chair to tie her second shoe. “Didn’t you know about it? Lovegood’s one of the organisers, I assumed she would have told you about it.”

“I...no,” Hermione says, swallowing. “Luna runs it?”

“Yeah, with Sato, that Hufflepuff sixth year?”

“Oh.”

“And obviously Weasley’s always there, too.”

Hermione can only parrot back what Parkinson is telling her. “Obviously Ginny’s there too?”

“Well, yes. Being a supportive girlfriend and all that.”

This time, Hermione’s voice comes out as a squeak. “Girlfriend?”

Parkinson’s eyes are wide. “Did you not know?”

“Luna and Ginny are _dating_?” Hermione manages to pull out her chair before she sinks into it, mind and stomach churning.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I thought you knew.” Parkinson’s voice is distressed, her expression wary.

A lot of things about her argument with Ginny begin to click into place.

“I didn’t,” Hermione says hoarsely.

“Well.” Parkinson clears her throat. “That’s a bit awkward of me, but I’m sure they still won’t mind if you came to the meeting. And it could be a good chance to clear the air and talk to Weasley; I know it’s been bothering you.”

A few nights ago, when they stayed up talking, Hermione spilled her fears about the fight with Ginny as well as how distanced she sometimes felt from the boys. In hindsight, it’s mortifying – she and Parkinson aren’t dating, they’re not even friends, so why did Hermione open up to her like that?

“Wait,” she says. “Why are you inviting me to the meeting anyway?”

Pansy looks surprised by the question. “Um. Because you might want to come?”

“But I’m not queer.”

The word is strange on her tongue, not one she’s used to saying, and the statement lands harsh in the air between them.

Parkinson blinks at her, once, twice, like she doesn’t know what to say.

Finally: “You’re not?”

“No,” Hermione snaps. “Why would you think that?”

“Why would I think that?” Parkinson spits back at her. “Maybe because you’ve been having sex with me for the past month!!”

“That doesn’t mean anything! I’m not gay!”

Pansy stares at her. She says nothing, but the silence is enough to make Hermione twitchy.

Then, without saying a word, Parkinson turns and leaves their dorm.

*

As the calendar turns to November and the days get colder, things return to some semblance of normal in Hermione’s life. A week after her fight with Ginny, her friend has stopped giving her the cold shoulder so obviously that other people notice, but continues to avoid Hermione’s attempts to talk to her alone. Ron and Harry are obviously still concerned, and she catches them watching her warily when they think she’s not looking, but neither try to ask her what’s wrong again. And things with Parkinson…

Well.

Hermione groans into her pillow, clutching the sheets with sweaty hands as she pushes back into Parkinson’s grip. When Pansy guided her onto her hands and knees after barely any time spent kissing, Hermione was annoyed – she likes the press of their bodies together, the feeling of skin against skin and Parkinson’s pleasant weight on top of her – but now she’s converted. Parkinson’s not changed anything in how she’s touching Hermione, not really, but the position gives her new angles to try and makes everything feel shivery and illicit.

With confident fingers, Parkinson strokes from Hermione’s clit through her folds, then twists two fingers together to push inside her. Hermione shivers.

“Fuck, yes, just like that,” she pants, spreading her knees farther apart in a silent bid for Pansy to go deeper. But Pansy doesn’t oblige, holding her fingers still as she runs her free hand down Hermione’s spine, massaging the curve of her arse. It’s the perfect tease. Hermione trembles, her muscles fluttering around Parkinson’s fingers, but it’s not enough.

“Pansy,” she whines, canting her hips back. Parkinson massages her hips again, grip strong and sure, before she starts finger-fucking Hermione in earnest.

“Yes, oh, yes,” Hermione pants, hair hanging over her face as she presses her forehead against the bed. “Don’t stop!”

“I won’t,” Parkinson promises, breathing labored. “I’ve got you.” She leans in over Hermione, mirroring her shape and peppering kisses over her shoulders and the back of her neck. Hermione trembles beneath her ministrations, feeling overheated and shivery. It should be cold inside their tower room, but the fire Pansy is stoking in her gut makes Hermione feel too hot for her own skin. Pansy slides a hand across Hermione’s stomach before trailing her fingers over Hermione’s clit, and her hips stutter forward involuntarily.

“Pansy, _fuck!_ ”

“I want to make you come.” Pansy’s breathing is labored, her voice rough. She fucks Hermione with determination and precision until Hermione can do nothing but moan, clutching her pillow, her breasts squished against the bed with her arse high in the air. The position drives her wild, Pansy’s noises drive her wild; _Pansy_ drives her wild, and her determination as she touches Hermione; Hermione comes on her fingers, rocking back into Pansy’s touch, feeling fucked-out and blissful.

When Pansy pulls out, Hermione is left gasping for breath, rolling weakly onto her side before her knees give out. Beside her, Pansy’s rolled onto her back and is touching herself with both hands, fucking herself with the same fingers that were inside Hermione just moments ago.

The sight does things to Hermione, but she wants to do more than watch. She scoots closer, batting Pansy’s hands out of the way and replacing them with her own. Pansy is hot and wet inside, moaning eagerly as Hermione starts up a rough rhythm. She comes with Hermione’s mouth on her nipple, Hermione’s fingers on her clit, arching wildly and almost bucking Hermione off with the force of her orgasm.

They’re both breathing roughly when Hermione rolls back onto her side, putting a modicum of space between herself and Parkinson. She takes a moment to enjoy the view: the pink peaks of Pansy’s nipples, still hard from their sex. The space between her breasts, pulled apart by gravity, a valley that Hermione wants to travel with her tongue. The supple curve of her hips, which invite a firm touch; the thatch of hair between her thighs, which fades to a whisper beneath her navel, an intriguing tease that taunts Hermione, inviting further exploration as soon as she catches her breath.

Her plan – and her ogling – are interrupted when Pansy sits up and swings her feet over the edge of the bed. She waits only a moment before she reaches down to grab her pyjamas off the floor, and then stands to put them back on.

Hermione pushes herself onto her elbows, watching with confusion. Before her fight with Ginny, they’d gotten into the habit of sleeping in the same bed after their encounters. When Pansy pushed aside her bed curtains and pulled Hermione’s book out of her hands earlier that night, she’d assumed the same thing was going to happen now.

Pansy goes into the bathroom, and Hermione relaxes back onto the pillows, sitting up as she waits for Pansy to return. Maybe she’s overreacting, she thinks, until Parkinson comes back out and makes straight for her own bed.

She knows it would be safer to let it lie, but she can’t help herself.

“Is something wrong?”

Parkinson looks over, startled, from where she’s been drawing her curtains. “What?”

“Did I do something to upset you?”

Parkinson just looks at her. Hermione feels exposed, sitting there still naked, and draws her knees against her chest, curling her arms around them. “Usually you would stay and sleep with me.”

Pansy sighs. “I just don’t feel like sharing a bed tonight, Granger.”

“Oh.”

“I’m really tired, and it’s not exactly comfortable to share a twin-sized bed.”

Parkinson’s words make sense, but they don’t ring true. Hermione always sleeps perfectly well when Pansy shares her bed, even if it means they spend the whole night tangled up together and the blankets get kicked to the floor by morning because they’re too hot. But there’s a harsh edge to Pansy’s words, like she’s waiting for provocation, and Hermione doesn’t want to argue.

So she nods, says nothing, and gathers her own clothes off the floor. She ignores Pansy’s eyes on her back as she goes into the bathroom, and takes a quick shower to wash the sweat off her body before she brushes her teeth. When she comes back into their room, Parkinson’s curtains are closed and the lights are off. With a last look across the room, Hermione tugs her own curtains shut and pulls the covers over her head, falling – eventually – into an uneasy sleep.

*

Hermione is groggy and cranky the next morning, having tossed and turned for what felt like half the night, but when she enters the Great Hall and finds Ginny sitting alone at the Gryffindor table she knows she has to seize the opportunity. Her steps falter when Luna slides in beside Ginny, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and whispering something in her ear before she turns to her breakfast, but she presses forward. After last night’s weirdness with Pansy, she needs to resolve at least one problem.

Both girls look up when Hermione sits down across from them; Luna’s expression is one of surprise, while Ginny scowls. Hermione holds up her hands in supplication, trying to look apologetic.

“I know you’re still mad at me,” she says. “But can you at least give me a chance to explain? I know I owe you an apology. You too, Luna,” she adds, as Luna looks ready to get up and leave.

“I can leave you two to talk.”

“You don’t have to run off,” Ginny says, grabbing her arm.

Hermione interrupts her. “Please, stay. I think this is a conversation I should have with both of you.”

Luna settles into her seat, scoots in a little closer to Ginny. Ginny wraps an arm low around her waist, leaving it there when she turns to look at Hermione defiantly.

“So? What did you want to talk about?”

Hermione takes a deep breath. “I behaved badly when we argued,” she says. “I was feeling defensive about what you walked in on, and I overreacted and took it out on you. I shouldn’t have done that.” She takes a deep breath. “And I realise now that I insulted you, as well, which I’m very sorry for. I didn’t know you two were a couple. Parkinson had to explain it to me, actually, a few days later.”

Ginny glances sidelong at Luna before returning her eyes to Hermione. “Even if you didn’t know we were dating– even if we _weren’t_ dating, it would still be a hurtful thing to say.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I was too caught up in my own head to think about what I was saying.”

Once again, Ginny looks at Luna, who nods encouragingly. Ginny sighs, the tension going out of her shoulders as she slumps forward to rest her elbows on the table. “It’s alright. I forgive you. You couldn’t have known – we haven’t exactly been broadcasting it, and I– I know how hard it can be to go through all those feelings.”

“What feelings?”

This time it’s Luna who speaks. “Hermione,” she sighs, sounding pitying and disappointed all in one. “Are you really going to pretend you don’t know what we’re talking about?”

Ginny’s voice is gentle. “When Luna kissed me over the summer, I absolutely flipped,” she says. “Kissed her back for a good while, then threw her out of my room and didn’t answer her owls for a week. I thought if I didn’t acknowledge it, then it couldn’t be true. I didn’t want to admit that I was gay.”

“I never had any trouble admitting to myself that I liked girls as well as boys,” Luna says lightly. “But I was terrified to tell anyone else, for fear it would change what they thought of me.” Her face darkens. “Especially when people already think I’m odd.”

“I don’t…” Hermione begins. They both look at her expectantly, and she wets her lips. “I didn’t have any inkling, at all, until this thing with Parkinson.”

Luna nods. “That’s quite normal,” she says. “Many of the people who come to HQW experienced the same thing.”

“HQW is Hogwarts Queer Women,” Ginny explains. “It’s a group–”

“That Luna runs. I know,” Hermione says. “Parkinson told me about it. She wanted me to come.”

“You should.” Luna smiles.

“I don’t know if I’m quite ready for that yet.”

Luna nods, understanding.

In the quiet, Hermione takes a deep breath. “I haven’t...even really admitted it to myself,” she says. “Much less anyone else. Until now.”

Ginny leans forward, brow furrowed. “You haven’t talked about it with Parkinson?”

Hermione frowns. “No, why?”

“I guess I assumed that’s what made you want to talk to us about it,” Ginny says, with a sideways glance at Luna.

“No. I think–” Hermione winces, remembering the argument she’d had with Pansy. “I think I probably owe her an apology too.”

Luna’s eyes sparkle over her mug as she takes a sip of her coffee. “You could make it up to her by asking her to the end of term party.”

“End of term party?”

“Seamus and Ron are throwing it in the eighth year common room,” Ginny explains. “This weekend. Had they really not told you?”

“I guess I’ve been a little distracted lately,” Hermione admits.

“I’m making mulled cider,” Luna says. “With moonflowers. If you have Pansy drink some, she’ll be more amenable to forgiving you.”

“I think she’s going to be plenty amenable anyway,” Ginny says under her breath, and Luna laughs.

Hermione forces a smile. “So, we’re good now?” she asks Ginny.

Ginny smiles. “We’re good. And if you need anything else–” she reaches across the table to squeeze Hermione’s hand “– you know we’re here for you.”

*

Hermione has every intention of talking to Parkinson – apologizing to her – that evening, but an impossible Ancient Runes translation keeps her at the library with her partner until curfew, and Pansy’s already asleep when she gets back to their dorm. The next night, holdover exhaustion from the day before has her snoring before Parkinson returns. When she wakes up the following morning, she promises herself she’ll talk to Pansy that night, but during dinner Parkinson starts making eyes at her from the Slytherin table; her shirt is already unbuttoned when Pansy pushes her into their room and straight onto the nearest bed.

While Pansy writhes beside her later that night, during their second round, after Pansy’s made them both come and Hermione is returning the favor with torturously gentle attention to Pansy’s clit, she wonders if it’s even necessary. Things were strained between them for a little while, but now they’ve gone back to normal – there’s certainly no tension between them in bed, as Pansy arches into Hermione’s touch. Her bare skin practically glows in the low light of the _Lumos,_ flushed and damp with sweat, and she’s gorgeous like this; Hermione tells her so. Then she kisses her way down her neck, laving her breasts with dedicated attention until Pansy gasps out her climax.

They fall asleep curled up in Hermione’s bed that night, and the night after that as well, and Hermione can’t bring herself to disrupt the comfortable peace that’s formed between them with something as risky as an apology, especially when Pansy might not be mad at her anyway.

*

“You’re coming, right?”

Ron’s voice behind her startles Hermione; she sits up abruptly, pulling away from Parkinson as she does so. They’re only sitting together studying, nothing at all incriminating, but her heart still jumps in her chest.

Harry sits on the arm of her chair, shaking his head at Ron’s antics. “I’m pretty sure everyone’s coming, mate. No one is going to launch a competing party last minute.”

Ron glares at Harry briefly before he turns his attention back to Hermione. “But you’re coming, right ‘Mione?”

“Yes, just like I told you the last time you asked.”

“You can’t blame me for double checking, you chickened out at the last minute last time–”

“I had homework!” Hermione argues, face flushing, because it’s only partially true; Parkinson had come back from that party tipsy and handsy, and Hermione got very little work done that night.

Beside her, Pansy snorts, clearly remembering the same thing, and it has the unintended consequence of gathering Ron’s attention.

“You’re coming too, right Parkinson?” he asks.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Pansy says wryly.

Ron nods once, satisfied, and returns his attention to Harry and Hermione.

“It’s gonna be great,” he tells them. “Seamus got a new Firewhisky from Aberforth, and Luna’s making spiked cider–”

“That’s not what I heard,” Hermione mutters, and Harry laughs.

“Well, I’m going to spike it,” Ron says. “And don’t even think about scolding me.” The latter is directed at Hermione, who merely shrugs. It’s surely against school rules for them to be serving alcohol at a party they aren’t even supposed to be having, but she’s not going to be the one who tells McGonagall. Rules at Hogwarts seem more arbitrary than ever, after everything they experienced last year.

“She’s not going to scold you, Ron,” Harry says for her. He pushes off the chair, stretching before looking at Hermione. “Ready for dinner? We’re about to head downstairs.”

Hermione glances at Parkinson before she can stop herself, feeling caught. They’d had vague plans to study a bit longer before going down to dinner together, but she doesn’t feel ready to explain that to Ron and Harry. She’s opening her mouth to tell them she’ll come when she notices that Pansy’s back has gone stiff, shoulders creeping towards her ears where she’s bent over her homework.

“Actually, I have a few more questions to answer before I’m done. I’ll see you there in a little bit.”

Ron shrugs; Harry smiles. “As long as you don’t forget to eat again,” he teases. Parkinson doesn’t say anything as the boys walk away, but when Hermione chances a glance at her roommate, she’s smiling down at her Potions assignment, and Hermione knows she made the right choice.

*

They’re late to the party.

Making out in Pansy’s bed turned into clumsy grinding in Pansy’s bed, enjoyable in its lack of finesse, and honestly Hermione hadn’t wanted to get up. She would have been content to stay there and continue what they were doing – eventually with less clothes – but Pansy reminded her that her friends were the ones hosting the party, and they’d both already promised to go.

Parkinson makes her way to the common room first, to avoid suspicion, and Hermione follows shortly after. Pansy is already on the other side of the room in a knot of people, and Ron spots Hermione immediately, waving her over to the drink table and pressing a bottle into her hand.

Which Seamus promptly removes from it.

“What the–?”

“Shot first!” Seamus declares, wiggling a small glass that smells like Firewhisky under her nose. “You’re late to the party, you have to catch up.”

Dean laughs, and Ron groans. “Come on, mate, don’t be like that. ‘Mione doesn’t want to–”

“It’s fine,” Hermione interrupts. She takes the shot and throws it back, gagging a bit at the taste and unexpected heat. When she hands the glass back to Seamus, he’s goggling at her. Ron and Dean look similarly shocked. “Can I have my beer back now?”

Seamus hands it to her, wordlessly, and Hermione wanders off to find Ginny and Luna sharing an armchair in the corner.

“Hermione!” Luna calls, waving. She’s perched on Ginny’s lap, one of Ginny’s arms around her waist. “Isn’t it a fabulous party?”

“I just got here,” Hermione says. “It seems nice so far.”

“We saw Parkinson sneak down here not ten minutes before you did.” Ginny’s grin is wicked. “Having a little pre-party fun?”

Hermione flushes, but is saved from responding by Luna’s tipsy laugh. “Like we didn’t do the same thing, Ginny.”

Ginny gapes, looking betrayed, as Hermione does a poor job of muffling her laughter.

“You’re supposed to be on _my_ side,” Ginny grumps. Luna pets her hair consolingly.

“Alright, everyone, circle up!” Seamus crows from the middle of the room. “It’s time for Truth or Dare!”

“Do we have to?” Parvati asks, arms crossed and expression disdainful.

Seamus rolls his eyes. “Well, _no,_ but it’ll be more fun if you do. C’mon!”

Parvati sighs and sits down as everyone comes to the center of the room. Luna eagerly pulls Ginny along by the hand, and Hermione reluctantly follows after them.

Seamus explains the rules with great pomp, and the game begins with Dean admitting that his first sex dream was about Madam Rosmerta. Neville is dared to do a sexy dance to _Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_ and Ginny reveals, to Harry’s mortification and Ron’s obvious distress, that the weirdest place she’s ever gotten naked is the Gryffindor Quidditch Team’s broom shed. She dares Hannah Abbott to eat a whole handful of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans in one go, and after Hannah’s downed two glasses of water she makes Padma sneak into the Hufflepuff Common Room and take one of the portraits off the wall. The nun in the painting squawks about being returned to her rightful home while they all gather at the window to watch Ernie run a lap around the Great Lake barefoot, and once he’s returned to the circle his eyes fall on Hermione with a determined air.

“Hermione,” he says. “Truth or dare?”

Hermione wets her lips, nervous. All of the attention in the room is now focused on her.

She doesn’t know what to pick. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Parkinson stretching out her legs, bare under her uniform skirt. That’s one thing she definitely can’t tell the truth about, and anyway, she’s a Gryffindor.

“Dare.”

Ernie smiles, mischievous. “Alright, Granger. I dare you to kiss the most attractive person in the room.”

A brief cacophony of noise follows this declaration. Someone whistles; someone laughs. “Is that fair? It’s kind of a truth and a dare in one,” Luna asks, which is also what Hermione was thinking, but Seamus declares it to be valid, shushing the group until everyone is once again focused on Hermione, waiting with baited breath to see what she is going to do.

But she can’t decide.

Obviously she thinks the most attractive person in the room is Parkinson; there’s no one else that Hermione is at all interested in kissing. If she were being truly honest, she’d already be in Pansy’s arms. But she can’t. It would be revealing too much; except for Ginny and Luna, none of her friends have any idea what’s going on between them, and this can’t be how they find out, during a game of Truth or Dare when everyone’s halfway drunk already. She doesn’t want them to think this is a joke she’s making, some kind of weird attempt at humor brought on by a shot of Firewhisky and her general annoyance at Parkinson’s presence. She doesn’t want anyone to know anything about them at all.

Pansy’s watching her with the rest of the room. Her eyes on Hermione are warmer, heavier than everyone else’s. She’s waiting, like the others, to see what Hermione will do. Her expression, when Hermione risks a look over, is mild; to anyone else it would be neutral. Hermione knows it’s not, but for the life of her she doesn’t know what Pansy actually wants her to do.

To cover up her slip, she looks around the rest of the circle. There’s Ron, but she can’t choose him; how pathetic would it be to choose her ex, especially when he’s got Robins sitting in his lap already. Harry’s a safe choice for her heart, but no – she can’t abide anyone thinking she’s another one of his fans. Ginny or Luna would know that she didn’t mean anything in kissing them, but that still raises too many questions from the others.

She’s taking too long to decide; her classmates are starting to titter. She has to choose quickly or it’ll be obvious that she was covering something else. One more desperate glance around the circle and–

There! Neville, sitting next to Pansy. He’s a safe enough choice; no one will question her. She turns and crawls forward, too aware of all the eyes on her. Her heart is pounding in her chest, although she truly couldn’t care less about a kiss with Neville. Pansy is watching her with a shuttered expression as Hermione comes to a stop, sitting back on her knees in front of Neville. She forces a smile, then leans in to kiss him, quick and perfunctory while the others hoot and cackle around them. He doesn’t kiss her back – she doesn’t give him a chance to – and then she’s crawling back to her spot with burning cheeks and two pairs of confused eyes watching her back.

“Um, Padma,” she says, casting desperately around the circle for someone to pick. “Truth or Dare?”

*

Parkinson doesn’t come up to their room that night.

After a few more rounds of Truth or Dare Hermione had begged off, claiming a headache. She’d laid in bed, trying to read, as the sounds from the party filtered up the stairs, eventually tapering off into silence. She listened as doors opened and closed on their landing and the one up the stairs, their classmates making their way to bed after the evening of revelry.

But the door to their room never opens.

There have been times when Pansy stayed out late studying, not getting back until Hermione was already asleep in bed, but this feels different. She’s never stayed out after a party, and Hermione’s troubled mind conjures an image of Pansy in someone else’s bed, kissing another girl, having forgotten all about Hermione. She tosses and turns, promising herself that Parkinson will be back in the morning, but it still takes her another hour to fall asleep.

When she wakes up, Parkinson isn’t there.

Her curtains are pulled back, bed cover rumpled and pillows smashed against the headboard from when they’d messed around before the party. The bed hasn’t been slept in. The bathroom, when Hermione ventures in for a quick shower, is cold and dry. Pansy hasn’t been back to their room at all.

Nor is she in the Great Hall, where Hermione picks at her toast while her tea grows cold. Classes are done for the semester, so there’s no assignments to be done, nothing she urgently needs to study. She could work on her research project – she could _always_ do more work on her research project – but as that’s the only thing on her agenda for the rest of the day, she doesn’t feel the need to rush.

“Oh good, you’re here.”

Hermione smiles. “Neville, hi.”

“Hey, Hermione.” He slides into the seat across from her, twisting his hands together. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you about what happened last night…”

“Neville?”

He’s very nervous. “Obviously I think you’re great, Hermione, I mean, who wouldn’t, and you’re a great friend, but you know I’m seeing Hannah, and I don’t– I mean–”

“Neville,” Hermione interrupted, sensing where this was going. “I don’t actually like you.”

“What?”

“I mean– that came out harsher than I meant! I like you as a friend, but I don’t like you like that. Either.”

“Oh.” Neville’s whole body loosens with relief, and he smiles at her briefly before his face twists with confusion. “Then why did you kiss me last night?”

Hermione groans, rubbing her temples. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t fair to you, or to Hannah.” In hindsight, she’s not sure why she picked dare, nor is she sure why kissing Neville seemed like the best option. “I just didn’t know who to pick, and you seemed like a safe option.” She sighs. “Again, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Neville’s grin is easier now. “I was just wondering how I was going to let you down easy.”

Hermione laughs. “Sorry to cause you stress.”

“It’s alright.” Neville stands up. “That’s all I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve got to go meet Hannah, so enjoy the rest of your breakfast.”

Hermione smiles and waves as he leaves, then lets her head drop to the table, burying it in her arms. How mortifying. She thought she would have learned to be less short-sighted in her actions by now.

*

It’s after lunch when Pansy finally comes back to their room.

Hermione’s doing homework at her desk, and she looks up, relieved, as soon as she hears the hinges creak. “Oh thank Merlin,” she says, getting up and starting towards the door. “Where have you been? I was worried.”

Pansy stares at her blankly, back against the now-closed door.

“I stayed with Draco.” She frowns. “Why do you even care?”

“Why do I– what? You’ve never stayed out all night before, of course I was concerned.”

Pansy snorts. “You were concerned about me. That’s new.”

She doesn’t look Hermione in the eye as she crosses the room to her bed, throwing open her trunk and starting to rustle through it. She’s wearing the same clothes she had on at the party last night, her school skirt and a striped jumper, both looking rumpled and worse for the wear.

Hermione hovers at the foot of her own bed, not sure how to break the strange tension. “Pansy,” she tries. Then, “why did you decide to stay the night with Malfoy?”

Pansy lets the lid of her trunk fall shut, the noise loud and jarring. She throws the clothes she took out onto her bed and starts undressing, facing away from Hermione the way she never does anymore.

“I don’t know why you thought I’d come back, Granger,” she hisses, tugging her shirt off and flinging it towards her pillow, “when you so obviously didn’t want me here.”

“What does that mean?”

Pansy whirls to glare at her. “Are you _really_ this thick? I thought you were supposed to be the smart one of the group, Granger! Or is that just an act? After all, I know you’re good at pretending.”

“I–”

Pansy’s already turned back around, pulling on a pair of joggers under her skirt.

“Why are you mad at me?”

Pansy throws her a withering glare over her shoulder. “Have some self respect,” she sneers, then turns around fully. “Or do you really not know? Did you really kiss Neville last night and not even _think_ about how that might make me feel?”

Relief settles in Hermione’s chest. “Pansy, that– that didn’t mean anything. You don’t need to worry – I don’t like Neville that way. I like _you._ ”

“Well I certainly wouldn’t know it, and neither would anyone else.”

“What did you think I was going to do? Kiss you? Pansy, that wouldn’t–”

Hermione draws up short as Pansy’s face crumples. She turns away, hunching her shoulders, staring at her pillows as if they are suddenly fascinating.

“You’ve made it very clear what you think of me,” she says bitterly. “I shouldn’t have been– I _wasn’t_ expecting anything else.”

“Pansy–”

“I don’t have to put up with this!” Pansy cries. “I don’t know why I am! You’ve done nothing but treat me like crap, you can’t even admit you like me. It’s obvious that the thought of telling anyone else about us makes you ill–”

“Pansy, can we please just talk–”

“No, we can’t.” Pansy throws her trunk open again, pulling out a bundle of clothes and hugging them to her chest. “I’m spending the night at Draco’s. I’ll talk to McGonagall over break, see if I can get a new roommate for the spring. Have a good holiday,” she spits, and sweeps out the door before Hermione can say anything to stop her.

*

“Are you alright, Hermione?”

Harry’s voice snaps her out of her reverie. She’s been staring out the window, watching the snow-covered landscape fly by, since they got on the train. Her friends’ conversation has been mostly background noise, but now that Harry’s drawn attention to her, everyone turns to stare: Harry’s looking worried, as are Neville and Hannah; even Ron manages to tear his gaze away from Robins long enough to watch her with concern. Ginny and Luna, having obviously guessed at what’s going on, wear expressions that edge closer to pity.

“I’m fine,” she says, forcing her voice into something bright. “I’m fine, Harry. Why wouldn’t I be?”

It’s obvious from their expressions that no one believes her, but her behavior hasn’t been strange enough yet to make them argue. She forces herself to pay better attention to the conversation, offering a few remarks of her own about the fun they have planned for the holiday break before she loses interest, her eyes straying back to the window. True to her word, Hermione hasn’t seen Pansy since their fight the day before yesterday; she’d spent most of the previous day in their room packing, and Pansy had not appeared even once. She’d looked for her on the platform as they all queued for the train, but to no avail; Luna, following her gaze, had told her that Pansy was planning on staying at the castle over the holiday.

With the benefit of hindsight, the many – _many_ – mistakes Hermione has made weigh heavily on her. She thinks of the way Pansy curled in on herself when she told Hermione that she knew she meant nothing, the way that she’d flinched when Hermione had thrown those words at her, _I’m not gay._

And it isn’t true. The truth is– the truth is, waking up next to Pansy feels more natural to Hermione than anything she did with Ron. When they kiss, she never wants to stop. When they touch, Pansy makes her feel things she didn’t know she could feel, and the moments of deeper connection they shared – the conversations about schoolwork, and the future, and all the little fears that came with that – only made her more curious. She wants to get to know Pansy Parkinson better; wants to keep touching her and exploring her body every chance she gets – but she doesn’t know what that means for her life outside of Pansy.

She hasn’t reached any conclusions by the time the train pulls into Kings Cross. Mind still whirring, she follows the others out of their compartment. They collect their trunks and say good-bye to Neville, Hannah, and Robins on the platform before the rest of them set off to find George. Hermione and Luna will be spending the first half of the holiday break at the Burrow, so he’s brought the car to pick them up.

“Mum’s got Dad finishing a last minute repair to the roof,” he explains, hugging them each in turn, Ron and Ginny extra fiercely.

“And they trusted you with the car?” Harry jokes.

Hermione finds herself wedged in the backseat between Luna and Ginny; Ginny throws up a _Muffliato,_ cutting off the sound of the boys talking in the front.

“Spill,” she says, pinning Hermione with a knowing gaze.

“It’s obvious something happened between you and Pansy,” Luna adds sagely.

“Hopefully not obvious to everyone,” Hermione mutters, and then winces; that was the root of the problem, wasn’t it?

“Well, no,” Ginny says, not noticing Hermione’s distress. “But it’s obvious that _something_ is going on. What happened?”

“What do you think happened? We had a fight.”

“About the party?” Luna asks gently.

Hermione exhales heavily. “Yes. And about – other stuff. That happened earlier.” She glances up at Ginny. “Things I thought she’d gotten over.”

“But she hadn’t.”

“No.” Hermione sighs, pushing her hair back. “I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you want to do?” Ginny asks.

“I want to know what I should do.” Hermione shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s all so complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Luna says kindly. “If you know what you want, all you have to do is go get it.”

Hermione forces herself to smile. It doesn’t feel that easy. “I guess that’s what I have to figure out, then.”

“You have the whole holiday,” Ginny says, settling back in her seat and dropping the _Muffliato._ “You’ll have time to figure it out.”

“I hope so.”

“You will,” Luna says with confidence. “I know you will.”

*

Hermione wakes early a few days after Christmas, the way she has every day of the holiday so far. She’s staying in Bill and Charlie’s old room, ostensibly with Luna, although she’s disappeared to Ginny’s room every night after they come upstairs – not that Hermione minds. The quiet of the room makes it hard for her to sleep, but it’s not Luna’s gentle snores that she’s missing. It feels wrong to go to sleep without Pansy’s warmth beside her, or at least the noise of her quiet moans in the next bed – not that Hermione has any urge to recreate that experience alone, ever since she and Pansy fought.

She watches the sun travel across the ceiling, sliding down the wall to slowly illuminate the faded Quidditch posters and dragon illustrations hanging there. Molly’s moving around in the kitchen; Hermione can hear the muffled clangs of pots and pans as she starts on breakfast, the scrape of chair legs on the floor as someone joins her at the table. Above her, the ceiling creaks as Ron and Harry start to get up and get dressed; the low murmur of their voices is familiar even though she can’t make out what they’re saying.

Hermione sits up, stretching and Summoning her slippers and robe. Breakfast in pyjamas is the norm at the Burrow, but the chill that has permeated inside makes extra layers necessary. She’s rummaging through her things, trying to find a pair of socks, when a knock at the door startles her.

“Come in,” she calls, expecting Luna or Harry, and is surprised when Ron opens the door.

“Hey, Hermione,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “Do you mind if we talk for a minute?”

“Alright.”

The lone desk in the room is lacking a chair, so Hermione sits down on the edge of her bed while Ron faces her on the other. It feels strange, to be alone with him, and Hermione can’t help remembering the moments spent alone over the summer, one floor above them in Ron’s bedroom. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment and she twists her fingers together, wishing Ron would make his point so they can go downstairs.

“Look, I– I know that things have been weird between us since we broke up,” he starts. “But I want you to know that – regardless of that – I’m always here for you, okay? And I want you to be happy.”

“I know,” Hermione says. It’s true. “And the same is true for me – our friendship is stronger than the fact that we didn’t work out. If you ever need something, I’m here for you.”

“Thanks,” Ron says, smiling briefly. “I appreciate that. I guess I wanted to bring it up because – it feels like there’s something going on that you’re not telling us. Me and Harry, I mean.”

Hermione presses her fingers into the side of the mattress. “Um–”

“Not that you have to tell us everything,” Ron rushes to interrupt her. “Obviously, you don’t, but we– I was worried that maybe you felt like you _couldn’t_ talk to me, because of what happened with us.”

Another knock on the door. Ron seems to be expecting it, and Harry looks sheepish when he sticks his head in. “Have you talked to her about it?”

“Not done yet, mate,” Ron says, rolling his eyes.

“Just come in, Harry.”

Harry sits beside her on the bed. “We’re not trying to gang up on you,” he says.

Hermione snorts. “Feels a bit like it.”

“We–”

“I know you’re not trying to,” Hermione sighs. “And I know I’ve been keeping some things from you lately.” She shakes her head. “But it’s complicated.”

“Does it have something to do with Parkinson?”

Hermione jerks her head up. That’s the _last_ thing she expected Ron to say. “What?”

“Parkinson.” Ron looks at Harry, nervous. “We, uh, noticed–”

“She seemed pretty pissed off when you kissed Neville at the party,” Harry says. “And you looked like you were going to kiss her instead for a minute there, too.”

Hermione buries her face in her hands, groaning. At the party, she’d been so scared that her friends might find out about them. Now she doesn’t even care that her fears were realised; she's more concerned about whether or not Parkinson will ever forgive her.

“So it’s true, then?” Ron asks quietly.

Hermione nods. “Yes,” she whispers. “I mean, it wasn’t anything formal and...it might not be _anything_ now, anyway. But we’ve been...involved.” She reluctantly looks up at her friends. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“It’s alright,” Harry says. “We’re not mad.”

Ron frowns. “What do you mean, it might not be anything anyways?”

“We had a huge fight, after the party,” Hermione admits. “And she went to stay in Malfoy’s room, and I haven’t talked to her since. She even mentioned something about trying to get McGonagall to give her a new roommate. So who knows if she’ll even be willing to talk to me by the time we get back to school.”

“But you want to talk to her?” Ron asks. “I mean, you don’t want to – break up with her, I guess?”

Hermione shakes her head. “I don’t want it to be over. I mean, who knows if anything more formal would even work for us, but I’d like to at least try it out.”

“You haven’t told her that,” Harry says soberly.

“No. I’ve only just realised it myself, and– well,” Hermione sighs. “Like I told you, she’s not talking to me.”

“Well that’s that, then.” Ron nods decisively. “We need to get you back to Hogwarts.”

“What?”

“Ron’s right,” Harry says, jumping to his feet. “You need to talk to her as soon as possible!”

“I don’t know if that–”

“ _Ginny!_ ” Ron yells down the stairs.

“You want to talk to her, don’t you?” Harry’s asking.

“Well yes, but–”

“Merlin, what?” Ginny says crossly, appearing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. Behind her, Luna is sleepy but intrigued.

“Parkinson’s staying at the castle for the holiday, right?” Ron asks.

“Why do you – oh!” Ginny’s eyes go wide as she catches sight of Hermione, and she pushes past her brother into the room. “Have you told them, then?”

“I wouldn’t so much say _told_ as _was cornered._ ”

“Hermione needs to talk to Parkinson,” Harry declares.

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying,” Luna agrees dreamily.

Harry nods. “Right. So we need to get her back to the castle.”

“Dramatic,” Ginny grins. “I like it.”

“You’re all being ridiculous!” Hermione bursts out, throwing her hands into the air. “Who says I even _want_ to go talk to Pansy?”

Everyone pauses to look at her.

“But you do, Hermione.” Luna says. “Don’t you?”

Hermione takes a deep, shaky breath. “Yes.”

“Wonderful, then that’s settled.” Ginny’s gone into team captain mode. “Harry, you contact McGonagall and let her know that Hermione needs to be let in through the front gate. Ron, come up with something to explain to Mum and Dad. Hermione, you need to put on something besides pyjamas. Luna and I will help you pack up your things while you do.” Everyone stays frozen for a moment, and Ginny clears her throat. “Well? What are you all waiting for?”

*

After a hectic half-hour in which Hermione has been shepherded out of the Burrow, Side-Alonged to the Hogwarts gates by an overly-encouraging Harry, and let in by a reluctant McGonagall who declared she “didn’t want to know, Potter,” Hermione finds herself outside her own door.

She pushes her hair behind her ears, incredibly nervous. She’s come this far, though, hasn’t she? Ron and Harry know, and based on their reactions, the rest of her friends will also be fine with it. She’s traveled all the way back to Hogwarts because she doesn’t want to go another day without clearing the air with Pansy, and now all she has to do is open the door, and she can’t.

Hermione takes a deep breath. She is a Gryffindor. She can do this.

Pansy is lying in bed reading, and looks up when Hermione enters, startled at first before her expression morphs into confusion.

“Hermione?” She clears her throat. “Granger. What are you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you.” She closes the door and goes to sit on her bed, remembering vividly earlier that morning – it feels like it happened longer ago – when she faced Ron like this in Bill and Charlie’s old room. “I need to apologise.”

Pansy raises her eyebrows. She hasn’t put the book down; in fact, now she flips a page, leisurely, as though Hermione isn’t even there. “Oh?”

Hermione forces herself to take a deep breath. Pansy is allowed to be mad at her – that’s why Hermione is here, after all.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry that I said I wasn’t gay, and acted so horrified when Ginny found out about us, because I know that hurt you and it wasn’t fair of me to be so dismissive, when really I needed to work through some things on my own. And I’m sorry I kissed Neville at the party and made you feel like you didn’t matter.” She takes a deep breath. “The truth is you do matter. A lot. I’ve told Harry and Ron, and they’re the ones who encouraged me to come here today.”

Pansy’s put the book down now. She’s watching Hermione, intrigued, but her expression is still guarded. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Hermione says, smiling a little. She forces herself to meet Pansy’s eyes. “I like you, and I like what we’ve been doing. I realise now that I made you feel like you didn’t matter, when that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“You really hurt my feelings at the party. I thought you were coming over to kiss me, and then…”

“I know,” Hermione whispers. “I should have kissed you. I was just scared, with everyone there.”

Pansy gives a little shrug. “Yeah.”

“I was scared of anyone knowing,” Hermione says. “And I can’t pretend that I’m ready to scream it from the rooftops now, but I think someday I will be. And I don’t want to miss this chance.”

Pansy wets her lips. “Really?”

“Really.” Hermione smiles. “I don’t know what’s going to happen – how things will go between us – but I know I want to give it a try. A real try. As long as you do.”

“I do,” Pansy says. “I really do.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

Hermione smiles wide, happiness bubbling up inside her. She smoothes down the covers around where she’s sitting. Pansy is watching her with a strange, calculating expression, and although Hermione is thrilled that they’re on the same page, she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do now.

Luckily for her, Pansy breaks the awkward silence. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” she says, exasperated. “Aren’t you going to come over here and kiss me?”

Her eyes sparkle. It makes Hermione feel playful. “Is that what you want me to do?” she asks, teasing.

“You know it is.”

When Hermione sits on the edge of her bed, gingerly and carefully, Pansy surprises her by grabbing her shoulders. It sends her off-balance, and she topples onto Pansy, who pulls her into a laughing kiss. It doesn’t take long until they’re not laughing anymore, and Hermione loses track of how much time she’s spent wrapped up in Pansy’s arms.

*

“For Godric’s sake, stop fidgeting,” Ginny says, as the carriage makes it’s bumpy way up the road into the castle. “You’re going to make _me_ nervous.”

“What if she’s changed her mind?” Hermione plays with the edge of her cloak nervously. “What if–”

“Nothing’s changed in the past two weeks,” Ron interrupts. “I’m sure Parkinson’s looking forward to seeing you just as much as you are. You need to relax.”

Hermione forces herself to close her mouth and take a deep breath through her nose, more out of a desire to stop annoying her friends than because Ron’s reassurances worked. Realistically, she knows he’s right – well, he’s _probably_ right. But her body doesn’t believe him, and she’s thrumming with nerves.

After their conversation over the holiday, and a pleasant few hours spent curled up in Pansy’s bed, Hermione had regrettably needed to leave. McGonagall wasn’t willing to let her return to the castle for the rest of the holiday, and besides, she hadn’t had any of her things, and didn’t want to neglect her planned visit to her parents. She and Pansy have been owling since the day after her visit, and everything has seemed fine from her letters, but she’s still fearful that something might have changed.

“I think it’s sweet you’re so nervous,” Luna announces unexpectedly. “It means you really care.”

“Well...thanks, Luna.”

Whatever strange follow-up comment Luna is about to make gets interrupted by their carriage pulling up to the castle doors. They bundle out, hurrying through the flurries of snow and into the Entrance Hall. Inside is a riot of noise, students of all ages weaving through the crowd and greeting friends they didn’t see on the train. Ginny and Luna immediately peel off from their group to greet Sato and another girl Hermione doesn’t recognise. Ron is pulled away by Robins, and Dean and Seamus arrive to grab Harry.

Hermione is left standing alone in the sea of black robes. She rubs at her arms, cold – the carriages aren’t well insulated, and the front door opens every few minutes, welcoming another group of students and letting another blast of chilly air inside. There’s no one she wants to find or catch up with right now – no one she wants to see more than Parkinson, who’s nowhere to be found. Hermione cranes her head to look above the crowd, searching for that familiar black hair, but to no avail.

With a sigh, she turns, deciding to head back to their room, hoping Pansy will find her there soon.

And there she is. Dressed casually in jeans and a hoodie, her posture almost sheepish. She’s at the base of the stairs, having just arrived. A pack of third-years rush past her for the staircase, and she frowns at them, then, turning, catches sight of Hermione.

Even at this distance, Hermione can see the blush on her cheeks. She raises one hand, and Hermione waves back, the gesture too small to encompass everything she wants to say.

Pansy smiles. Then, winking, she blows a kiss across the hall, and as Hermione catches it and holds it to her heart, she knows that everything is going to be fine.

__

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Follow us on tumblr [@violetclarity](https://violetclarity.tumblr.com/) and [@kysprite.](https://kysprite.tumblr.com/)


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